At The Spectra
by pgrabia
Summary: Frustrated by Wilson's rel'ship with Sam Carr,House seeks out a distraction from his misery that only adds to it. Post-ep fic for S.6-18 "Knight Fall". Spoilers for S.6. H/W pre-slash, slash. Warning: explicit sexuality, violence & language. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This is a post-ep for "Knight Fall". S6 Ep. 18 thus contains spoilers for season six up to and including this episode. This will be a short chaptered fic of no more than five chapters. It was an idea that struck me at three o'clock in the morning so if it's too weird, you now know why! Un-Beta-ed. Please remember to review. Con-crit welcome but no flaming, please.

**Warning:** This is a H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

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He dodged clinic hours as well as Wilson by leaving the hospital early. His case with the fallen knight was solved, his leg hurt more than before he took his last ibuprofen, he was disheartened and all he wanted to do was go somewhere no one would think to look for him and get very, very drunk—drunker than he had been since before admitting himself to Mayfield. Shit-faced--that's what he wanted. It had to be somewhere close enough to the loft so that he could walk there after (assuming after he finished consuming the kind of quantities he was thinking about that he could still walk) but a place where absolutely no one would expect him to be. He didn't want to be found by his team if a new case was found but he especially didn't want to be located by Wilson.

Just thinking about his best friend reminded him of the harpy who had broken the oncologist's heart twenty years ago and was back to cut it into tiny pieces and feed upon it so that there was no way House could help Wilson put it back together again. He thought about the unopened manila envelope Lucas Douglas had given him, full of juicy and incriminating information that he'd hoped would give him the upper edge on defeating that foul blonde beast once and for all. The only reason he hadn't opened that envelope was because of Wilson. House was certain that Samantha Carr was nothing but a heartache in the waiting for the oncologist but not so certain that she wasn't slightly less harmful for Wilson than he was. If there was a chance that Wilson could find happiness with Sam, the diagnostician didn't want to deny him that—Wilson deserved to be happy with someone. He certainly didn't seem to be all that happy with House as his friend anymore. He knew how badly his scheming and jealousy had hurt the younger man in the past and was determined not to be that kind of asshole anymore but it was pointless; he would never change.

This was all because the truth of the matter was…House loved Wilson enough to let him go and be with Sam if that was what was in the oncologist's best interest. He wanted to believe that Sam was anything but what Wilson needed, but he didn't know that for certain. All House _did_ know was that all he had ever brought anyone whom he'd ever loved was misery.

House rode his motorcycle fast and dangerously, as he always did, but this time there was a careless recklessness in what he did, and he was only partially aware of it. He rode into the parking lot of a nightclub that was located a little less than a half-mile from the loft. He chose this place because it fit all of the criteria he had decided upon; it was within walking distance of home and no one would ever suspect him of frequenting (in truth, he never had been there before); the Spectra Lounge was a gay nightclub.

The moment he approached the converted automotive supply warehouse he could hear the sound of dance music leaking out of the club underneath the doors and through every crack in the walls, or so it seemed. The steady, pounding beat seemed to be harmonic with the beating of his heart. A few men stood around talking or smoking outside the establishment and a few were engaged in free enterprise, both in entertainment and pharmaceuticals. Following the musty, earthy scent in the air, House contributed to the capitalist system, buying two joints and pocketing them in his jeans. He noticed a couple of pairs of eyes follow him with some interest as he headed for the entrance and he had to admit that it didn't bother him at all. It felt good to still be able to draw a little attention at his age. If only he wasn't a gimp, he might have a greater range of possibilities, but there were some willing to overlook nuisances like a crippled leg.

It wasn't like this was the first gay establishment the diagnostician had been to in his life. For a time when he was an undergrad he and a couple of guys from the dorm would gravitate that direction when the rest of the young men would head to the peelers or campus pubs to get drunk and pick up some tail. House alternated his choices in destination, never one to limit himself to just one way or another. It was like doubling his odds of success and he had always been fairly open-minded to just about everything when it came to pleasure and self-indulgence. Life was too short and miserable not to be. As he grew older his tastes had leaned towards the heterosexual, but he had never ruled out the homosexual either. He just didn't discuss his alternative proclivities, not even with his best friend; House didn't know how Wilson would react to knowing that his best friend got just as hot with men as he did with women and in fact lusted over the oncologist secretly all the time.

At the door he noticed the very large door man and wondered fleetingly if the guy ever took anything into his body that wasn't steroidal in nature. House stood nearly six-foot-three but the tower of muscle mass glaring at him was easily a head taller and had to have been at least two hundred and fifty pounds of protein.

He paid the cashier his thirty dollar cover charge and walked into a dark, hot cavern of music, dance, negotiations, hunting and pure carnality. It was a kaleidoscope of colors, flashing lights and the constant movement of strutting, undulating, twisting and pumping bodies on the dance floor. Men of all types, shapes and sizes moved and shook around him. Some were more conservatively dressed as he was, others were flamboyant, others were tastefully refined and others liked the macho look. There was a lot of flesh exposed, and House wasn't just a little bit enthralled with a lot of what he saw. The air was heavy with the scent of cologne, sweat, musk, alcohol, and sex.

He found an empty table back from the dance floor and sat down, hanging his cane on the back of his chair. For obvious reasons he was more a watcher than a participant these days, but before the infarction, and after a couple of drinks and a toke or two, he had been known to produce a little sweat on the dance floor himself. House grinned at the thought of the expressions on the faces of Wilson and his team if they ever found out about this private and secret aspect of his life. It wasn't that House was ashamed; he simply valued the privacy of his personal life, was all. It was nobody's business whom he screwed but his own.

A well built and endowed waiter clad in a tight white muscle shirt and a pair of some of the tightest black denim shorts the diagnostician had ever seen on anyone, man or woman, arrived at his table to take a drink order. House thought for a moment; he hadn't done much drinking since his release from Mayfield, a couple of beers here, a glass of wine there, and he didn't know which liquor he missed the most. That, and his indecision kept the waiter at his table a little longer, giving the diagnostician a chance to check out his total package a little more completely.

"Double Jack's, neat," he told the waiter and then watched the guy's ass as he walked away to fill the order; _tight, firm, very nice_. His drink was back nearly right away, giving House both the coming and going view. He brought his glass to his mouth and took a deep swallow, cringing slightly at the burn as the whiskey made its way down his gullet to his empty stomach. There was no point in eating anything that would slow the absorption of the alcohol into his bloodstream when his primary purpose for being there was to get as drunk as he could as quickly as he could and then maintain that as long as he and his money held out.

Despite the selection all around him, however, the only person he could think of was Wilson, the last person he wanted to think about that evening. How long had House known that he was in love with his best friend of over a decade? He knew that there had been the definite pull of attraction from the moment House walked into that fateful bar in New Orleans and saw the younger doctor for the first time. Wilson had been so young, so drunk and so beautiful. Beautiful was a word House had spoken aloud perhaps a handful of times in his life, one of them to Wilson although no one had heard it when he had said it, not even Wilson himself; the oncologist had been passed out at the time and the diagnostician had been nearly as out of it but not so much that he didn't remember whispering it into Wilson's deaf ear just before kissing his lips chastely when no one else was looking.

He had known for _certain_ that he was in love with the boy-wonder oncologist after the younger man's common-law, Amber, died in a fateful and tragic bus crash that both she and House had been a part of and which he had been accused of dragging her into. The day Wilson had told House that he had to leave, that he wondered if he and the diagnostician had ever really been friends in the first place, and ran away—that was the day he had had the epiphany of his true feelings for the most important person in the world to him, then and now. Just the memory of the heartbreak House had felt that day was enough to cause his throat to tighten and his eyes to sting with emotions he now felt more often than he wished he did.

Just when House was beginning to believe that there was the smallest possibility that Wilson harbored some kind of deeper feelings for him as well, that bitch Sam turned up again like a bad penny and distracted him again. Yet another woman to interfere with his relationship with the oncologist and threaten to destroy the good thing they had going and the possibility of a better thing to come. She was yet another rival, just as Julie, Bonnie and Amber had been—another fucking hurdle that his crippled ass had to jump over _again_.

How could Wilson be so stupid to try to make a go of it with her again after such a long time divorced and after the deep depression and stab to his self-esteem he had suffered because of her the first time around?

House finished his drink and ordered two more of the same in quick succession. He knew that pickling his liver today would come back to haunt him tomorrow, but he didn't care.

How could Wilson do this to him? After all of the effort he had gone through to kick the Vicodin and work on his issues so he could come close to being the kind of person that would make the younger man happy the younger man had to go off and fuck his ex-wife. Didn't he have a clue what this woman was going to do to their friendship? She was going to tear them apart and take over Wilson just as Amber had begun to do. House would be left all alone. If he lost Wilson, his life would be meaningless and empty—emptier and more miserable than it had ever been.

His ruined thigh spasmed at the thought of that, but as it had been doing now for the past bit, the pain now extended up into his lower abdomen and was much stronger that it had been just a few months before. It was getting worse, whatever it was, and that terrified him. He knew he should have the MRI and arteriogram done to find out what exactly the problem was, if it was in fact the artery or not, but he was terrified to know. He feared another infarction, or worse. He feared having to have his leg amputated altogether, and was pretty certain that he would rather die than have that happen. He has been debating telling Wilson about it, and his best friend seemed to be oblivious of anything out of the unusual with the diagnostician. Now, House wondered if there was any point. With Sam back in his life, would Wilson even care?

He felt the alcohol begin to deaden his emotions but he wanted to forget as well as become numb. He ordered yet another drink. When it arrived the waiter set the glass on the table and whispered to House, "This is compliments of the gentleman in red at the bar."

House didn't have to move his head to look, which was a bonus. The guy in question sat at one end of the bar. He wore a casual button up shirt in red and black form-fitting trousers. He was quite handsome, in his forties with dark blond hair cut short, although not as short as House's and a well-built body. He looked like he played racquetball or squash on a regular basis and did some running, as well.

Tempted not to acknowledge him, House paused a moment at that thought. It was possible that Red could be a distraction from thinking about what he was about to lose with Wilson. His best friend was getting some, why couldn't he? House smiled to himself again, thinking about dinner the other night with Wilson, Sam and the cross-dressing hooker he had brought as his date to embarrass Wilson, make Sam uncomfortable and otherwise ruin the evening. It had backfired on him, but he wondered what would have happened if he'd brought Red along instead.

House turned to look at Red briefly, whom was watching him, and nodded in acknowledgement before turning back to his drink. It was now up to Red to make his move. Usually House would assert his dominance by making the first move, but tonight he simply wanted a lay and was willing to be wooed rather than put out the extra effort. He could assert himself in bed instead.

As expected, a few minutes later Red came up to House's table.

"Hi, I'm Davin. Mind if I join you?"

House looked up at him and smiled thinly. "Isn't that what we're here for?" he asked.

Davin sat down in the chair next to the diagnostician's, grinning. "Good point, uh…?

"Just call me House."

"Okay," Davin said agreeably, shrugging. "So do you come here of--?"

House rolled his eyes and cut him off mid-sentence. "Look, let's skip the clichés, shall we? I don't really care who you are and I'm pretty certain you feel the same way. From the strip of lighter skin on your left ring finger I can tell that you ordinarily wear a wedding band so your spouse probably has no idea you're here and you want it to stay that way, which is cool. I don't want any strings either. You're here to get laid and so am I. Another drink and we can meet both of our expectations. There's no need to get personal about it."

An amused smile crossed Davin's face, causing his green eyes to sparkle. Under the table he placed his hand on House's left thigh and began to move it slowly up the inseam towards his groin.

"You don't mince words, do you?" he said to House. The diagnostician kept his voice even despite the fact that the sensation of Davin's hand now brushing against his hardening cock threatened to cause him to gasp.

"Who has time?" the doctor told him, smiling slyly. _Fuck_, that felt good!

They both had more to drink, but with each passing minute they moved closer to each other and began to tease , getting each other to the point where it was silently and mutually agreed to take this elsewhere.

They left the club with House's hand unashamedly on Davin's ass. They went around the building towards the parking lot, groping each other, and headed for Davin's black Porsche. House was so hard he could barely stand it, his cock pressing hard against the fly of his jeans, wanting to be freed, to be satisfied. Davin was just as ready. House decided it was time to assert his position and grabbed Davin, pushing him up against the front hood, kissing him bruisingly, hungrily. He pressed his tongue forcefully against the other man's lips and Davin allowed House access to his mouth where their tongues took over the fight for dominance. Their hands were all over each other, rubbing, pinching, squeezing. There was no gentleness or care involved here. It was purely sexual, hot and animalistic. They pulled away from each other until they were both in the car, where they resumed to paw, kiss and bite.

"My wife's out of town," Davin said, pulling his tongue out of House's mouth long enough to talk. "We can go to my place." The diagnostician shook his head.

"No, my place is closer," House growled, panting. "My roommate is working late tonight. We'll go there."

It was agreed and within two minutes the Porsche pulled up at the curb outside of the condo complex. Both men took it upstairs to the loft, unable to keep their hands off of each other even before they entered the front door. House broke away long enough to grab a scarf from the coat rack and wrap it around the outside door knob before shutting and locking the door behind him.

The rest was a blur of clothes being removed and dropped as they made their way to House's bedroom, hands groping, rubbing, pinching, spanking. A cane was discarded along the way. Bodies were rammed against furniture that stood in their way and it was decided that the corridor wall would serve their purposes for round one. House had grabbed a condom out of his pocket before discarding his jeans and put it on now. He slammed Davin against the wall face first and proceeded to pull down the other man's boxers; Davin's pants had been discarded along with House's just inside the living room. Once his sex partner was freed of his underwear, House unceremoniously pushed into him and began to fuck him right there. There were growls, gasps and groans coming from both mouths. Davin cried out in pain when House sunk his teeth into the tender flesh where the other man's neck and shoulder met. It only fueled the fires. House was pounding him into the wall for all he was worth. It was a frenzied rut, selfish and hot. Although he wasn't at all concerned about how it was for Davin, the diagnostician was good at everything he applied himself to and Davin came just before House did, leaving a stain of cum dripping down the wall and all over himself.

It wasn't over yet. Davin literally pushed House through the open doorway to his bedroom and onto the bed. He slammed the door behind them and then followed House onto the bed, earning a quick warning about avoiding House's wounded thigh. The diagnostician had been self-conscious of his scar but Davin hadn't seemed to notice so he forced it out of his head. It was House's turn to be fucked, and midway through Davin suggested they experiment with erotic asphyxiation; House had tried it once before, a long time ago, and hadn't been all that thrilled with the experience but the blond man insisted and House gave in, going along with it. They used one of Wilson's older, less favored ties, which Davin wrapped around House's throat. They faced each other now and Davin, holding up the diagnostician's legs on his shoulders entered him again, holding tight to the tie with his hands. At first House felt a little panicky but chided himself for being such a fucking wuss. The harder Davin thrusted, the tighter he pulled on the tie.

For House it was one of the most amazing sensations he had ever experienced but Davin continued to get rougher and pulled tighter until House couldn't draw in any air at all. He was being strangled. Realizing that his drunken mind had made a serious error he began to pull at the tie around his neck as he desperately tried to loosen it so he could breathe. House began to flail his body, kick with his legs and pound on Davin's arms but the other man simple continued to choke and fuck him mercilessly. House was strong and knew how to fight when he needed to, but as his body became increasingly oxygen-depleted, his muscle strength and coordination failed him. The diagnostician knew he couldn't last much longer. He was already beginning to fade out and he realized that this was no overexuberance or misunderstanding between the two of them. Davin was intentionally trying to strangle him to death, and was succeeding.

House's last sight before unconsciousness was that of Davin's maniacal smile grinning in sadistic ecstasy and his final thought was that he would never see Wilson or hear his voice ever again.

***

Dr. James Wilson decided to take the elevator upstairs to the loft rather than take the stairs. It had been a long day at the hospital and he had felt a migraine coming on so he wanted to keep the physical exertions to a minimum. He had planned on taking Sam out to dinner tonight but had begged out when the vertical squiggles began to play along the periphery of his vision. He had immediately taken one gram of ibuprofen to knock the migraine out before it had a chance to hit him, and he'd staved off a complete attack, but he still had a headache and felt nauseous so Sam had understood when he said that he had to go straight home and go to bed.

When he stepped off of the elevator and saw the loft door standing wide open, he paused a moment and questioned why House would leave it like that. It wasn't like him. House highly valued privacy and never left the door open unless they were carrying in or out items which left them with hands that weren't free to open and shut the door every time they went through. Since Wilson knew that they weren't expecting anything to be delivered and House wouldn't even attempt to move anything large or awkward in or out of the loft on his own, it seemed unlikely the door had been intentionally left open.

A shiver ran down the oncologist's spine. Something didn't feel right. At first he thought it could be a break in, but there wasn't any sign of damage done to the door or the door jambs so that seemed unlikely. House had left a message at the front desk in the hospital lobby for Wilson stating that he was leaving early, that he was feeling under the weather. House never admitted to being sick unless it was something serious that he couldn't hide or deny. What if House was seriously ill? What if he had been too sick to remember to close the door, or to have been _able_ to close the door? A sick feeling came over Wilson that had nothing to do with his previous nausea.

Wasting no more time, Wilson ran into the foyer of the loft and looked around.

"House?" Wilson called out worriedly, dropping his briefcase by the still open door. "House, are you here? Are you okay?"

As Wilson walked out of the foyer he stopped short. House's clothes were heaped together in a small pile on the coffee table in the center of the living room. He shook his head, baffled. What on earth were they doing there? Wilson began to move around the loft, looking for House and calling out his name. After checking the kitchen and House's bathroom, Wilson decided to check his bedroom next. As he headed down the corridor his eye spotted the stain on the wall. He frowned, outraged. So House had had someone in the loft with him after all. Thoroughly disgusted, Wilson stormed into House's bedroom, not caring if he was 'disturbing' anything and stopped short, letting out a strangled cry of horror at what he saw.

The diagnostician, his best friend, lay unconscious on top of his bed, completely naked, with what appeared to be one of Wilson's ties tightened and knotted around his throat. The bulging eyes, the appearance of petechial hemorrhaging clearly evident in the whites of them, and the cyanotic color to his skin instantly told Wilson that the older man had been strangled and appeared to be dead. He was frozen in place for only a split second and then exploded into instinctual action. He ran to House and began to work at untying the knot but he was having no success. He ran for the kitchen, grabbed one of his razor sharp utility knives from the block and hurried back to House where he quickly but carefully cut through the silken material. Once cut, he quickly unwrapped it from around House's neck and then felt for a carotid pulse. He found one, but it was dangerously slow and weak. He placed his ear next to House's mouth. The older man wasn't breathing.

Shaking violently and near tears Wilson grabbed his cell phone from where it was clipped onto his belt and called for an ambulance. Next he grabbed House and carefully lowered him down to the hardwood floor where the diagnostician rested on his back on a firm surface. He proceeded with Artificial Respiration, breathing for his friend. Tears were rolling down the oncologist's face and every time he stopped in order to check his pulse and breathing all he could do was murmur his name between sobs.

"Greg," he said desperately, "please. Please, Greg, I need you to start breathing! I need you to fight!"

Wilson was still breathing for House when the paramedics stormed into the loft five minutes later and headed in the direct of Wilson's shouts. They urged the oncologist to the side and took over from him. As he watched the two men work diligently over his best friend, Wilson could only wonder what the hell had happened just a few minutes earlier. What he saw terrified him to the core and for the first time since Amber lay dying in his arms Wilson prayed; he begged God to save House's life because the younger man really didn't think he could make it if House didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **Thanks for the amazing response I received for chapter one! I'll admit, I was a little nervous about writing about this subject. We all know that House is not an angel and has had his one-night-stands but this ends up as being different from the average, I would imagine. It's edgier than I have written before so don't expect a bunch of fluffiness in this fic. Also, I may have to go over the five chapter only thing. After reviewing my outline, I realize that it might take a little longer unless I make the chapters longer. Please remember to review!

**Warning:** This is a H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

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**Chapter Two**

Dr. James Wilson looked down at the unconscious body of his best friend; House had been dressed in a simple blue hospital gown by the PPTH Emergency Room staffers once they had managed to stabilize him. He now breathed on his own, but was receiving assistance with a breathing tube down his throat until he was stronger. His vitals weren't great, but he would survive. The problem was whether or not he would ever wake up and if he did, would he be brain damaged? He was in a coma and would soon be transferred to ICU. Wilson had no idea how long the diagnostician had gone without oxygen before he had arrived, but he did know that he had spent over five minutes breathing for the both of them before help arrived at the loft. The fact that House's heart had still been beating was a good sign that he hadn't been anoxic for a very long period of time, but even a few minutes without oxygen could cause serious harm to the brain.

House's skin was very pale—almost translucent it seemed—and the tubes, IV line and monitor wires coming from and going to his body made the normally strong man look frighteningly fragile. It was déjà-vu for Wilson, who had stood in this position with House far too many times in the past decade and a half. He couldn't look away from the older man, afraid that if he did for even a second the man would expire this time, after having cheated death time again in the past.

Setting his jaw and frowning, Wilson didn't know what to be feeling just then. He was worried and afraid, of course, but that certainly was not all. His eyes were misty and it pained him to see his friend go through yet another hurt in his already trauma-ridden life, but he was also angry that the diagnostician had been so foolish as to bring home a total stranger for a cheap lay and leave himself at risk like he had. He still didn't know how a woman could overpower a man of House's height and strength to be able to strangle him and leave him for dead. In spite of his crippled leg the older man was still a force to be reckoned with by both men and women. Wilson did know that House had been drinking by the smell of alcohol on his breath and the taste of it around his mouth as the oncologist was performing AR on him. He wondered exactly how much he had drunk and if it had been a factor. There was something else that Wilson felt, however, that he could only identify as being disappointment. It puzzled him why he felt that way. House was an adult and didn't have to have Wilson's approval for whom he had sex with and how the deed was done. Neither of them were puritanical virgins, for god's sake! Yet, for some reason, the oncologist felt let down by what had happened. Why? What business was it of his?

Because of the state Wilson and the paramedics had found him in, as well as certain forms of trauma apparent on his body, a rape kit was done on the diagnostician, just to be safe. Wilson hadn't been able to stick around for that, leaving the room. The idea that his best friend had been sexually assaulted was a little more than he could deal with for the time being; that and he felt that it would be an indignity, somehow, for him to watch the examination of House's 'nether' regions while his best friend was in such a vulnerable state.

Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of House's unconscious, strangled, naked body lying on his bed after what may have been kinky sex-play out of his head. It wasn't like Wilson had never seen his best friend in the nude before; right after House's infarction after Stacy had abandoned him, Wilson had been the one to care for the diagnostician during his depression and physical recovery and that had included helping him bathe and shower. Likewise, Wilson could recall a time a few years back when he and House had gone on quite the bender and for some reason—the explanation for the things the two of them did when pissed out of their minds was often hazy the next day—House had decided that it was completely appropriate to shower sans clothing in a public fountain at three o'clock in the morning. Fortunately a patrol car hadn't happened to drive by to see that spectacle or the both of them would have ended up in the drunk tank for the night.

Seeing House naked those ways was a hell of a lot less disturbing than the image earlier that evening had been. He had looked dead. Wilson had seen more than his fair share of dead bodies in his career as a doctor so he had a pretty good idea of what they looked like and he had been convinced for a couple of seconds that he had lost his best friend, the most important person in his life. Just the idea of it made Wilson nauseous all over again. He was grateful that the older man had cheated death yet again; Wilson hoped he never had to see House that way again because the next time would likely be the real thing.

The next time. It was sickeningly natural to think those three words. With House, there always seemed to be a next time. Each event caused Wilson to have a mini-nervous breakdown of sorts. He honestly didn't know how many more of House's medical emergencies he could take before completely losing his mind.

_Why, House?_ Wilson asked in his head despondently. _Why are you still so self-destructive? I thought we were getting better, that we were finally getting past this crap! What's happened to cause this kind of thing again? What signals have I missed? _The Chief of Oncology covered his eyes with one of his hands as if doing so would block the mental images. A thought occurred to him_. You're not using again, are you?_

"Hey!"

Wilson looked up at the speaker of the greeting. Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine walked up to him and gave him a quick hug. Her brownish-black hair was pulled back in a simple pony; he noticed that she was wearing a grey sweatshirt over a white T and dark indigo denims. On her feet were tan sneakers. She must have literally dropped everything and came immediately after receiving his call, not stopping long enough to change out of her casual at-home attire. Her brocade blue eyes were frowning slightly with concern.

"How is he?" she asked the oncologist softly. "What happened? All you told me over the phone was that House was hurt and you were with him in the ambulance on route to the hospital."

"He's stable, now," Wilson told her, sighing tiredly, shaking his head. "God, Lisa. What a nightmare!" His voice broke slightly and he cleared his throat before continuing. "I arrived home to find our front door wide open and no sign of House. I was a little concerned that he could be sick or injured and unable to answer my calls to him so I hunted for him around the loft and when I checked his bedroom--!" He stopped speaking abruptly, the image of House's face contorted from being strangled hitting him freshly and leaving him breathless. He began to tremble slightly, his jaw clenched and he swallowed several times.

Cuddy put a hand on his arm to comfort and reassure him, alarmed to see how shaken he was.

"It's okay, James," she told him softly, no longer boss but friend. "When you're ready."

The oncologist nodded, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to get it together. "I found him on his bed unconscious. Someone had strangled him with a neck tie and left him for dead. He was very cyanotic…I honestly thought he was dead." He exhaled loudly, feeling like he was going to vomit.

"I don't understand," Cuddy told him. "Who would want to kill House? I mean, besides certain patients' family members…you know what I mean. He's actually been behaving himself reasonably well. Doesn't he keep the door locked even when he's home?"

Wilson nodded, rubbing an eye tiredly. He didn't want to go into the less flattering details with her if he could avoid it. "I don't think he was home…alone. I think he had a guest. I don't know who it was. She was gone already by the time I got there."

"It was probably a hooker he picked up on his way home," the Dean of Medicine said cynically.

Wilson was irritated by the instant assumption she made, even if it was possible that she was right. "He has a girl…a girl he calls regularly. She's fairly high class, as far as that goes. She doesn't work the street. But we don't know for certain that it was a prostitute. House can be downright charming when he wants to be."

About to reply to that Cuddy was stopped by the arrival of a nurse at her side. "Dr. Cuddy, Dr. Wilson, there's a detective from the Mercer County Sheriff's Department here. She would like to talk to Dr. House, if he's conscious and also you, Dr. Wilson."

Glancing at each other, Wilson and Cuddy followed the nurse to the ER desk where the detective was waiting for them. She was a tall, slender woman; Wilson estimated her to be in her mid-thirties with long hair the color of buckwheat honey pulled back and up efficiently. Wilson figured she was fairly attractive and carried herself with an air of confidence and professionalism. She wore a mocha pant suit with an ivory blouse and expensive Italian leather pumps. Clipped to her jacket were an I.D. tag and a badge.

She saw the doctor's approach and met them. "Dr. Wilson?" she asked, also eyeing Cuddy.

"Yes," he replied with a nod. "That's me. This is Dr. Cuddy; she's the Dean of Medicine here at PPTH."

"Hi, I'm Detective Anna Levison; I'm with the Sherriff's department Major Crimes division," she extended a hand to Cuddy and then Wilson, smiling softly. "I'm one of the investigators assigned to Dr. House's attack. My partner is currently at the scene with the forensic investigators gathering witness testimony and physical evidence. I would like to speak with Dr. House and with you, Dr. Wilson about the events that took place this evening."

Wilson nodded grimly, shaking her hand briefly. "I'm available to talk, Detective but Dr. House has not regained consciousness yet and is going to be transferred to Intensive Care shortly."

"That would be fine, Doctor," she told him with a nod. "Would there be somewhere we could go to talk in privacy?"

"Why don't you use my office?" Cuddy offered. "It's right down the corridor just off the Clinic. Come with me."

She led Wilson and Levison out of the ER and through the lobby to the clinic. Unlocking her office for them, she ushered them in.

"I'll go and stay with House," Cuddy told Wilson. "Page me if you need me."

"Thank you," Wilson told her, nodding in acknowledgement. Once Cuddy was gone, they went to sit on the sofa.

"How can I help you?" Wilson asked her with a sigh.

"I realize this is a difficult time so I want to thank you for taking the time for this," Levison told him, pulling a notepad and pen out of her purse. "My understanding is that you and Dr. House live together in the loft where he was discovered. Is that right?"

Wilson nodded but then qualified, "We're roommates. The loft actually belongs to me but House has been staying with me since last fall."

She nodded. "Is your relationship with Dr. House romantic or platonic?"

Wilson shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Uh, platonic. He's my best friend but that's all. Neither one of us is gay. Actually, House recently underwent detox and rehabilitation for a prescription drug dependency; he has a physical disability accompanied by severe chronic pain. Part of the conditions of his release from the facility was that he not live alone, at least for the time being."

"What was the name of the facility he was treated at?"

"Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, just outside of Camden," Wilson answered. "I can get you the address and name of his psychiatrist if you need. I have a card in my office."

"That's great," she told him. "Which drug was he addicted to?"

"Opiates," the oncologist replied. "Vicodin in particular. He's been sober now for about eleven months."

Levison smiled at that. "That's great to hear. The first year is probably the hardest to get through without relapsing. What field of medicine are you in?"

Wilson was a little surprised. "Me? I'm the Head of Oncology here at Princeton-Plainsboro. House heads up the department of Diagnostic Medicine. In fact, he's one of the top diagnosticians in the world as well as being an infectious diseases expert and a nephrologist."

"It sounds like he has his hands full," the detective said with a grin. "You sound like you admire him a great deal, Doctor."

"I do," the oncologist admitted without hesitation. "House is a genius, and as with most geniuses he has his own particular set of eccentricities, not to mention the fact that he can be the world's biggest jerk when he wants to be—and he wants to be most of the time. He hasn't got the greatest of bedside manners, but he can diagnose illnesses that stump other specialists like no other person I know."

Writing down notes in her own form of short hand, she took a moment to jot down what he had told her before firing another question at him. "I want to be as tactful as possible with this…does Dr. House frequently bring home companions?"

Wilson smirked at her tactfulness in spite of the seriousness of the situation. "Actually no. He usually calls for…companionship. He has difficulty maintaining romantic relationships—trust issues. Other than for the woman he calls, he hasn't brought home dates, which I know about, for quite some time."

"Is it possible he goes elsewhere with them?"

The oncologist didn't care for the direction she was going and felt very uncomfortable. He was irritated that she seemed to be of the opinion that House was bed-hopping on a regular basis without even knowing him; he felt protective of his best friend.

"I suppose…," he answered, frowning with consternation. "Listen, I don't want you to get the wrong impression about House. He's a very private person and doesn't interact much with people, be it professionally or personally. He spends most nights at home watching TV, reading or playing the organ."

"I wasn't trying to imply anything, Doctor," she assured him evenly. "I have to ask these questions, particularly when we receive reports of assault and possible sexual assault. In no way am I attempting to smear your friend. Okay?"

She was very disarming and articulate, something the oncologist appreciated a great deal and he relaxed a little, nodding and smiling slightly.

"I'm sorry," he told her with a sigh. "I guess I'm just a little on edge right now."

"That's certainly understandable," she assured him. "Let's move on, okay? Tell me about what happened this evening from your perspective."

Wilson repeated to her the events that took place up until the point when the ambulance arrived at the hospital. His account was objective and factual, leaving out his own suspicions and fears. The detective took it all down in her notes and once he was done she sat in silence for a few moments as she gathered her thoughts.

"Again, I have to ask you a couple of sensitive questions, so please bear with me," Levison told him gently, wearing a look of regret. "I realize that you're not an expert, but…in your opinion, based on what you saw before you removed the ligature from around Dr. House's neck, did it appear as if the strangulation attempt may have been part of some kind of sex-play scenario? Again, I'm not standing in judgment. I simply need to know."

He contemplated her question, disturbed by the images of what he had seen being summoned up for him to witness again in his mind. He shuddered involuntarily before saying, "I…I'm n-not certain. The thought d-did cross my mind but…I don't know. The fact that he was n-naked when I f-found him suggests that m-may have been the case." Wilson silently chastised himself for stuttering again but it happened whenever he was under a great deal of stress. It was painful for him to even contemplate it because of the mental pictures it stirred up.

Appearing to notice the oncologist's growing discomfort Levison reached over and gave his hand a quick, comforting squeeze before pulling away again. He appreciated her concern. He could see why she had been sent to question House and himself. Her gentle but professional demeanor would serve her well during questioning individuals whom were traumatized and emotional. He wondered, absently, how many times in her career had she questioned victims and their families much as she was doing with him just now.

"By the way he was positioned and tied when you found him," Levison continued softly with compassionate hazel eyes, "did it appear that the ligature was tied around his neck by a second party, or by himself?"

Wilson met her gaze quickly, shocked and bewildered by the question. "By someone else, of course! Why would you even ask that question? Why would House try to strangle himself?"

A frown crossed Levison's brow and she looked like she was trying to pick her words carefully before she spoke them. "There are some instances," she explained, "in which an individual will tie him or herself in such a way that the ligature tightens around the next during the act of sexual self-stimulation…it's usually called 'autoerotic asphyxiation'." She sighed, obviously also uncomfortable talking about such private matters concerning a stranger with a stranger. "People who engage in it say that it enhances the pleasure and enjoyment of the act. Usually the individual survives it with no lasting aftereffects but sometimes, for a variety of reasons, the individual goes too far and ends up strangling to death. I need to ascertain whether or not Dr. House was alone when this happened or if there was someone else there with him at the time."

"I seriously doubt that House would perform such an act on himself," Wilson assured her quickly. He wasn't an idiot. He knew about autoerotic asphyxiation, though he never had engaged it in himself. He was simply surprised that anyone would suggest that House would engage in that sort of thing. The diagnostician often talked about kink, but his friend had never seriously considered the possibility that the older man might engage in such behaviors. Of course, he reminded himself, he didn't tell House everything he had ever tried sexually so there was no reason believe that House didn't have secrets of his own.

"Is Dr. House currently in an actual relationship—dating anyone regularly—now or in the recent past?"

"Not currently, no," Wilson answered, shaking his head. "There was someone he was interested in but nothing ever came of it. He did live with a woman for a few years but that ended years ago."

The detective nodded. "You mentioned earlier that Dr. House isn't gay. You're certain about his sexual orientation?"

Wilson felt himself tense up and feel a little anxious at the question and he wasn't certain why. He found her question a little odd and inappropriate. "I'm positive that he's heterosexual," he told her emphatically. "I have never seen him show interest in or date another man."

Levison paused with her pen hovering over the notepad she held. She bit her lip, appearing to be debating with herself over something before inquiring, "But you're not with Dr. House twenty-four-seven, are you? You both do live lives that don't always involve the other, don't you?"

Exhaling heavily through his nose, Wilson quipped, "Sometimes it feels like we're always together but no, we're not that inseparable. We have private lives that don't always involve each other. I don't mean to be rude, but why are you asking me these things? How is House's sexual preference relevant?"

"Okay," the detective said with a sigh, "I'm going to be bluntly honest for a little bit here, okay?"

The oncologist nodded, remaining silent.

"I've seen far too many scenarios similar to this in my career," Levison told him plainly. "If Dr. House had a partner with him this evening, then it is highly unlikely that it was a woman—before you object allow me to explain. I saw Dr. House when he was brought in; he is tall and strong in appearance. Most women would be shorter than him and considerably less strong. For your friend to have been overcome and strangled and not be able to stop it from happening, the person strangling him would had have been comparatively the same or greater in size and strength as him. I personally do not know of any average woman who would fit those criteria, do you?"

When she paused, Wilson realized she was waiting for a response, he blurted, "No." He felt numb.

Levison nodded, her lips pressed together in a thin line. "Now it is possible that Dr. House may have been sedated or weakened somehow, but the ER doctor I spoke to just before you, told me that there appeared to be quite a struggle based on the bruises and abrasions found on his throat, hands and pelvic region, indicating that it is unlikely your friend was so sedated or otherwise subdued that he couldn't have defended himself against a woman.

"Therefore, I strongly believe that the evidence indicates he was attacked by a man. We also know that there was definitely sexual activity that occurred. My partner who is currently at the loft called me to tell me that two used condoms were found and there was semen present on the blankets on the bed. The ER doctor confirms that a substance he believes is semen was found on Dr. House's body, including orally and anally. Can you understand now why his sexual preference is a valid and important piece of information in this investigation? I'm making no judgment calls, Dr. Wilson. I don't care whether he is homosexual, bisexual or heterosexual—he's a human being who doesn't deserve to be assaulted as he has been and that's what's important to me. However, by identifying his sexual preference we can know whether we're looking for a male or female suspect or if it could be either. We can also have a clue to what Dr. House's patterns of behavior might be and where we might start looking for our suspect. For example, a heterosexual is unlikely to frequent gay bars or clubs and vise-versa. Are we clear? So if you know of anything that could help us in this regard but you haven't told me because you're trying to protect your friend's reputation then I need you to come clean with me now."

Wilson shook his head slightly in dismay, unable to meet her eyes. What she had just told him was such a surprise to him that he had difficulty believing any of it. Logically what she said made sense, but emotionally Wilson didn't want to believe that House would have kept such a secret from him all these years. He had been certain that he knew the diagnostician better than he obviously did. He couldn't wrap his mind around it or figure out how he felt about it and he didn't want to, not right now.

"I…had no idea that he…uh…." He sighed, absently rubbing the back of his neck. "House would often flirt or make some suggestions to me that I thought were simply jokes—I returned them in the same spirit, as a joke. I didn't think there was anything serious behind it at the time. Now I don't know…I honestly didn't know that he was sexually attracted to men. I've never suspected him to be anything but straight. I'm not trying to withhold any information from you. God, I'm sorry! This has caught by surprise."

"It's okay," Levison assured him. "I'm operating on the assumption that Dr. House is bisexual and all indications so far are that his abuser is male. That's the position I'm going to proceed with until evidence is found to the contrary. I want you to know that anything you tell me will only be shared with other law enforcement officers directly involved with Dr. House's case. I have no intention of leaking anything to your friends, family or colleagues. I can't guarantee someone won't leak it, but it won't be by me or my partner. I need you to confirm with me some things. First, is your answer to me that there is nothing sexual between Dr. House and yourself, besides the flirtation you mentioned, still valid?"

Wilson paused for a heartbeat and then nodded. He loved House, there was no doubt about it, and he knew that if House had died he would have been devastated, but their relationship wasn't romantic. So why did he feel like he wasn't being completely honest with her? What the hell was the matter with him?

"Okay," Levison said, and then asked, "Is there any kind of issue between Dr. House and yourself that would cause you to resort to violence against him?"

"Absolutely not," Wilson assured her. "I would never do…_that_…to anyone, much less my friend."

"We're almost done for now," the detective assured him. "Are you currently involved with anyone, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson blinked his eyes as he adjusted to the shift in topic. "Yes. I'm seeing someone, it started just recently but it's fairly serious already. My ex-wife, actually. But she wouldn't arrange for anything like this to happen, if that's where you're leading! She and House actually get along fairly well. The other evening we all had dinner together and they seemed to be fine around each other. It's not like she has any reason to be jealous of him."

"Perhaps not," Levison agreed mildly, "but is it possible that Dr. House could harbor jealousy of her relationship with you?"

The oncologist stared at her, his eyes widening. Of course, House was always jealous of anyone or anything that threatened to steal a moment of his time away from fixating on diagnostician—House was, after all, the center of his own universe and expected to be the centre of Wilson's as well and didn't like sharing very much—but she wasn't implying that kind of jealousy. It hadn't occurred to him before now that House could be jealous of Sam for romantic reasons and it stunned him a little.

"I…I d-don't know," Wilson told her honestly. "I-I really don't kn-know."

The detective nodded and the oncologist thought he could see commiseration in her eyes as she said, "Okay. I think that's all I have to ask you right now, Doctor. If I have any more questions later I'll contact you. Do you have any questions to ask me before I leave?"

Wilson hadn't expected to be allowed to ask her anything and scrambled to find something.

"House has his mother still alive, and some extended family that he doesn't really associate with," he told her. "I guess you could say that aside from his mom, I'm the only family that he really has. Would you please keep me updated on your investigation?"

"I'll keep you filled in on what I'm authorized to talk about outside of the investigators involved," she agreed provisionally. "I can't promise you anything more than that."

Wilson nodded in acknowledgement. What she was really saying was that he was still a suspect and until she was certain that he had nothing to do with what happened to House what she told him would thus be limited. He understood, but he didn't like even being suspected in the first place.

She bid him farewell and he watched her leave Cuddy's office. Wilson remained seated on Cuddy's sofa, too overwhelmed to move. He rubbed his eyes and then rested his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. His mind was spinning. He thought about how close he and the diagnostician were; he knew they were more than best friends or even brothers to each other, it was the closest and weirdest relationship he had ever been a part of in his life. They had been through so much together over the years and were still friends. House had told him on more than one occasion that without him in his life he would be all alone, lost even, and Wilson knew that he felt pretty much the same way…was it possible? Could Gregory House have romantic feelings for him? Could he even be in love with the oncologist?

Likewise, if that was true, what did that say about his own connection to the older man? Wilson had absolutely no doubt that he was sexually attracted to women and had never been interested in men. Had been. Suddenly he wasn't absolutely certain about anything anymore. He _had been_ certain that House was heterosexual but new evidence indicated otherwise. He had been certain that he himself was as straight as a pin, but…but he did love House. He couldn't deny that, and while he had never even considered the possibility of anything more existing there somewhere he had never really explored the possibility that there might not be, either.

He sighed heavily, feeling shell-shocked. He couldn't deal with all of that right now. He could only focus on House pulling through and getting better. Anything else concerning the two of them would just have to wait for a better time…if there ever was one.


	3. Chapter 3

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **Yup. This is definitely going to be longer than five chapters. The next time I tell you in advance how many chapters one of my fics is going to be, totally disregard it Just a reminder to those reading that I am not a medical professional so what I write is based on what I've seen on TV, experienced myself as a patient or researched on line. I try to be as realistic and accurate as possible, but I'm bound to make a lot of mistakes. So if I do, please forgive me. I'd love you to correct me in your reviews so long as it's done constructively and not cruelly. Also, if you have ideas that you'd like to see put in my fic, let me know. I can't promise you that I'll use it but I have employed ideas offered me in the past so if I think it jives with the heart of the fic, you may see your idea pop up. If I use someone else's idea I will definitely give credit. I'm working on the next 'The Law of House' update so hopefully it'll be up by Tuesday or Wednesday. *Crosses fingers* This is un-beta-ed. Sorry.

**Warning:** This is a H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Crime scene investigators walked back and forth from their vans to the condo block carrying gear and samples sealed and labeled in brown paper bags which held inside a variety of ways of storing and transferring evidence from the scene to the crime lab. Intense grey eyes watched them for a while, their owner's mind going over the evidence that they had already found at the scene, trying to piece them together to solve a puzzle that they hadn't even found all the edge pieces to yet. They were getting an idea of the size and scope of what the investigation would be, but the answer—who tried to murder Dr. Gregory House—was a long way from being found.

He took a long, final drag from his Marlboro before dropping it to the concrete sidewalk and snuffing it out with the bottom of his black size twelve loafers. He exhaled what remained of the toxic smoke through his nose and then headed inside the building again, passing two uniformed officers on his way. If the elevator to the top floor had been available he would have taken it so he had to haul his aging ass up the stairs instead. It wasn't that he wasn't still in excellent shape at fifty-five—he ran fifteen miles every morning before heading to work and lifted weights after work most days—but he noticed how his joints were beginning to creak here and there when he moved and it was disconcerting.

Barely breathing harder than usual when he reached the top floor where the crime scene was located he smiled slightly in satisfaction. He may be creaking, but he still could kick ass when he needed to, though once he had become a plainclothes he'd had to kick less ass than when he walked a beat.

He walked the length of corridor to the front door of the loft apartment where the sentry at the door handed him a new pair of blue paper booties to slip on over his shoes. He signed back in on the clipboard the uniformed officer held and then took a step through the doorway when he heard someone call his name from down the corridor.

"Detective Warren!"

He stepped back and looked in the direction of the address. Dick Avery, one of the junior detectives assigned to assist the lead investigators on the case approached and with him was an attractive blonde in her thirties with frightened eyes. Warren sighed silently and removed his booties, handing them back to the sentry and then meeting them halfway.

"Toby, this lady is a neighbor who lives downstairs who says she knows our vic and his roommate," Avery informed him. "Nora, this is one of the lead investigators, Detective Sgt. Warren."

Warren smiled thinly and shook her hand briefly. "Hello, Miss…?"

"Look," Nora said nervously, hugging herself. "I know the men who live here." She nodded towards the loft. "They're a little odd and very annoying but they're otherwise decent guys. Det. Avery told me about the attack on Greg. It's terrible! I think I may have seen the man responsible."

Nodding, Warren motioned for the three of them to move off to the side of the corridor to make it possible for others to walk past. "Nora, is it? Tell me what you saw," he demanded a little gruffly. Unlike his partner he didn't believe in wasting time with unnecessary pleasantries, but he wasn't an ass either.

She nodded, nervously toying with the pendant hanging on a silver chain around her neck. "Earlier I saw Greg, er, Dr. House enter the building with a man I'd never seen before. They didn't seem to notice me, even though I was right there by the door picking up my mail. They were too busy pawing each other."

"'Pawing each other'?" he echoed, frowning. "Can you be a little more specific?"

The attractive blonde rolled her eyes and gave him a knowing smirk. "You know…they were groping and fondling and kissing?"

"I see. Go on."

"Well," Nora said and sighed, "I was a little surprised because, well, because Greg lives with James—that's Dr. James Wilson, they work at the same hospital here in Princeton—and a few months back they tried to convince me that they weren't gay but, hey, who were they kidding? I was there when James asked Greg to marry him and it seemed pretty sincere to me. I guess things haven't worked out so well for them."

"But they continue to live together?" Warren asked, pulling a notepad and pen out of the inner pocket of his grey sports jacket and jotting a few things down on paper.

"Yeah, obviously," she responded with a nod. "Anyway, Greg and this fellow got into the elevator without stopping for breath, if you know what I mean. It was kind of disgusting—I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not homophobic. I'd think that such behavior in public between a man and woman was disgusting too. It was totally inappropriate. That's all I saw. I didn't notice when the stranger left. I only knew something was wrong with someone in the building when I heard the ambulance arrive."

Warren pondered what she said as he jotted down notes. It confirmed his suspicion that the vic's date was a man and not House's roommate.

"Did they appear to be intoxicated?" the senior detective asked next.

Nora hesitated to answer which to Warren was an answer itself but didn't say so. Loyalty was fine but not when he was trying to solve an attempted homicide.

"Miss?" he pressed, glancing over to Avery who also took note of her resistance.

"Yes, I believe so," she admitted reluctantly. "I smelled alcohol and…pot on them. It was pretty potent. James and Greg have lived here for several months now and that's the only _really_ out of the ordinary behavior I've seen from either of them. Poor James…he's really crazy about Greg, too…you can just tell by the way he looks at him."

Growing annoyed with her extra commentary Warren bit the inside of his cheek to remind himself to be civil, a trick he'd learned in the academy when he was forced to train alongside boneheads whose only aptitude was brawn--without the brains it takes to be a competent cop.

"Uh, did you get a good look at Dr. House's date?" Warren asked. "Could you describe him the best you can for me?"

The woman nodded and seemed to hug herself even tighter than before. "He was a couple of inches shorter than Greg but bulkier. He wasn't fat, just a different build. Actually, he looked like he was quite fit. He had blond hair, a shade or two lighter than mine and it was cut short. I don't know…I guess he'd be in his late thirties or early forties—about James' age. He was wearing a red shirt and black pants and shoes. His shoes were different…they kind of looked like those hard-toed shoes that some people who work in warehouses and that sort of thing wear. I don't think he works in a warehouse…his watch was a Rolex, I'm certain of it. He might own the warehouse, you know. He was pretty cute, but then again, so is Greg."

"Did they arrive here in Dr. House's vehicle or this other guy's?"

"I'm pretty certain it wasn't Greg's…he owns a motorcycle that he parks in the building's parking garage," she informed the detectives. "I didn't get a look at his date's vehicle. I'm sorry, that's all I know. Hey, do you know if Greg is going to be okay? He hasn't died, has he?"

"The last news I received is that he's in critical but stable condition at Princeton-Plainsboro. I don't have any details," Warren told her, trying to sound pleasant but he was never certain if he actually sounded the way he intended. "Would you be willing to sit with a police artist and describe the person with Dr. House so we can get a sketch of him to work with?"

Nora frowned, looking like she was uncomfortable with the idea but then, after a moment or two, she relented. "Sure," she agreed.

Warren nodded once in acknowledgement and turned to Avery, who had stood back silently listening to the conversation between cop and witness.

"Detective Avery will make arrangements with you right away. The sooner we get the sketch the better. Avery?"

The junior detective took his cue and took over the conversation with Nora while Warren pocketed the notebook and pen again and returned to the loft, retrieving his booties from the sentry. Slipping them on, he hurried into the apartment before he could be distracted again. He picked his way around cops and CSIs at work and flagged evidence that was being photographed and catalogued before being bagged and removed from the building. He made his way to House's bedroom where he found the senior forensic investigator bagging a small multicolored object.

"Zach, what have I missed?" the detective asked him, slapping him on the shoulder amicably.

"Blond hairs on the blanket as well as a couple of dark brown and brown and grey ones and this," was the answer as Zach handed the bag to Warren. The latter lifted the bag up to look at it carefully. It was a rainbow colored matchbook with the front flap torn off and a couple of matches missing. "We found it on the floor behind the bedroom door. The front flap is missing so the name of the establishment this came from is missing but on the back flap is an embossed phone number."

Warren pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number. The line rang a couple of times before a male voice answered. In the background loud music nearly drowned him out.

"The Spectra Lounge, Brian speaking. How can I help you?"

Flipping his phone closed the detective replaced it in his pocket and looked back to Zach with a small smirk. "The Spectra Lounge. I know of the place; it's a gay club--it serves a higher class crowd."

"That's just a few blocks from here," the CSI confirmed with a nod. "Could be where the victim picked up the perp."

"Gee, you think?" Warren asked sarcastically, but with a smile to mitigate any hard feelings. "Guess Annie and I will be heading there next when she's done at the hospital. It's a place to start. Quite the dangerous lifestyle."

"Probably no more dangerous than any other," Zach said, shrugging. "If it is, it's probably because a lot of these guys have to keep their proclivities under wraps to keep their jobs and families."

Warren grunted and shrugged noncommittally. "The blond hairs you found may match the hair of a guy a neighbor saw House arrive home with earlier," he muttered, mostly to himself. When Zach was too busy gathering another sample from off the hardwood floor to respond, the senior detective made his way to the living room; it and the foyer had already been processed. He moved on to the other bedroom in the apartment.

It was the larger of the two bedrooms and it looked like it was being used on a regular basis as well. Kept much cleaner and more organized than House's bedroom, it also was graced with a full ensuite bathroom. Warren walked around the room, looking for anything that might jump out at him as being off or out of place. It seemed strange that House and Wilson would be employing two bedrooms unless Nora had been right about things not 'working' out between the roommates. If that were the case then separate bedrooms made sense, as did House bringing someone else home for sex. What was odd was the idea of ex-lovers continuing to live in the same place and even seeing others there. That is, if the two doctors were or had been lovers; their neighbor seemed to strongly believe that to be the case.

_Jealousy_? The detective thought. The neighbor had said that Wilson was 'crazy' about House. Was it possible it was the victim that had ended things with his roommate and said roommate, in a fit of jealousy upon discovering his ex-lover with another man, decided to punish or even dispatch him and then claim to have discovered him that way to cover his tracks? No, that didn't make sense. If Wilson had done it, he would have made sure the deed was done and successful before calling for the ambulance. Being a doctor, he would have been able to tell whether House was in fact dead or simply unconscious—unless the point wasn't to kill House but to punish him or give him a warning. However, if that were true, then Wilson would risk having House finger him once he woke up.

Warren put that thought on the back-burner, checking out the ensuite next. It, like the bedroom, was meticulously clean. He stepped over to the claw-foot soaker tub and noted the safety bar mounted on the wall over it. Levison had called him from the hospital right after she had arrived there shortly after the ambulance transporting House and Wilson had. She had reported that House had a crippled leg, which explained the cane they had found on the floor. The safety bar was likely installed to help him get out of the tub on his own, thus House either did or had in the past used this bathroom and therefore likely the bedroom as well.

He turned towards the sink and vanity when something sparkly on the tile floor caught the light and attracted him. He frowned and crouched down for a better look. Still wearing gloves Warren picked up the small item. It was a stud earring, not a diamond but a blossom filled with crystals with a yellow gold post but no back. It was very feminine, similar to something his wife would wear. Did gay men wear earrings like this? He knew Levison would clobber him for even having to ask the question. He replaced the earring to where he had found it.

He continued to the vanity where a toothbrush holder held two brushes--another sign that someone other than Wilson used this bathroom regularly. He opened the medicine cabinet above the sink but saw nothing unusual. The only pill bottle in there had Wilson's name on it: Zoloft, a common antidepressant. Leaving the medicine cabinet he turned to the cabinet beneath the sink and opened it for inspection. Immediately he spotted a medium-sized toiletry bag and pulled it out for a look. Before he could open it his cell phone rang. He checked the caller I.D.; it was Levison. Sighing he put the bag back and answered the call.

"Warren," was his curt answer. "What did you learn, Annie?"

"Not as much as I'd hoped but I'm not returning empty handed," his partner said in response. "House was still in a coma when I left but I got a chance to question his roommate. Let's just say it was interesting. Look, I'm starved. Meet me at Alexi's Diner in ten minutes and we can exchange notes there. Let Avery and Tsui finish up there with the grunt work."

"Yeah," Warren said with a smirk, "I'll be sure to tell them _you_ said so. You buying?"

"I bought last time, mooch," she replied. "You _owe_ me, which is great because I'm feeling _very_ hungry."

"Yeah, I'll just bet you are," the older detective grumbled. "I have something to share for show and tell, too. See you in ten."

"Right." Levison hung up before he did. Warren shook his head and made his way back to the living room where Tsui, another junior detective 'grunt', was heading towards the master bedroom.

"Already checked it out," Warren told him, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb. "Doesn't look disturbed. Look, I'm leaving to meet Levison for a bite to eat and then we'll be checking out a lead. You and Avery are on clean up."

"Oh joy," the Chinese-American detective responded, putting his hands on his hips. "Nice to see you show up anyway."

"Bite me," Warren told him, heading to the door. "When you're a big dog then you can bitch."

Warren didn't have to look back to know that Tsui gave him the bird.

* * *

Anne Levison sat alone in the window booth at her favorite place to eat. The place was clean and pleasant, the food was good and the price was right—cheap. She wasn't financially desperate, quite the opposite, actually. She was single, a full detective and a good hoarder, but she was also frugal. When you ate out as much as she did on the job, you had to be. She ran her finger along the rim of her coffee cup, thinking about her interview with Dr. Wilson, the vic's roommate and friend. He had seemed likable, and considering the circumstances, quite cooperative. Yet, she left him feeling uneasy, like there was something that just didn't ring true about everything he'd told her. She had no reason to believe he'd been lying, but it was a gut feeling that she couldn't shake.

She looked up when she heard the bell on the door ring signaling that someone was entering the nearly empty diner. The graying, grizzled man walking towards her table caught her eye and nodded in acknowledgement. As always he looked disgruntled; even when she knew he was actually happy he looked like someone had pissed in his corn flakes. She knew it was just his way, ingrained in him from birth and after working with him as her partner for nearly five years she had become good at reading the subtle variations in his frowns to know what he was really thinking and feeling. As she looked at him now his face read as satisfied. She hoped that was because he had gotten a lead in the case that was only a few hours old.

Paul Warren sat down opposite her and actually smiled. Okay, now she had to know what he had to share.

"Did you order yet?"

"Just the coffee," she told him. "I was being polite and waited for you." She had already decided upon what she wanted. A waitress approached their table already carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and carafe in the other. She put the cup in front of Warren and then topped up Levison's. Warren didn't bother opening the menu, handing it to the waitress.

"Toasted BLT, lots of mayo, and fries with a side of gravy, Maddie," he said to her familiarly.

"Gotcha," Maddie the waitress nodded, not needing to write anything down. "And you, Annie?"

Levison handed over her menu, "I'll have the corned beef on dark rye, please, with a side salad and Italian dressing."

"You got it," was the response before the waitress left them.

Warren raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said you were hungry," he told her with a snort. "Salad is _really_ filling."

"Just wait until I order dessert," the younger detective assured him with a wink and a smile. "I plan on having a piece of Double Chocolate Fudge cake _and_ apple pie a la mode!"

"By the way, Cindy told me to tell you she hates you," the older detective said with a smirk. "She says no woman has the right to eat as much as you do and not weigh three hundred pounds."

Laughing, Levison retorted, "Yeah? Well you tell your wife to stop cooking so well and the next time I'm over I won't eat you out of house and home!"

Her partner chuckled in his grumpy way; she watched him dump four packets of sugar and two creamers into his java and shook her head in disgust.

"You're pancreas is so going to hate you," she told him. "It's going to pack its bags and catch the next bus out of town. Aren't you afraid of diabetes?"

Shrugging, Warren replied, "Like you should talk, Ms. Double Chocolate Fudge Cake! What would be the point? The way I see it I have two options: I can eat the stuff I like now and die sooner but happy or eat healthy crap, live longer but die miserable. Hmm, tough choice, but I think I'll pick door number one, Monty!"

Levison frowned in confusion. "Who?"

Warren glared at her in disgust and sighed loudly. "Never mind! I forgot you would have been in diapers when "Let's Make a Deal" was on the tube."

"I don't think I was even a gleam in my father's eye when Let's Make a Deal was on," Levison teased, never having heard of the show before; she knew how sensitive her partner really was about his age. He denied it of course but she knew better.

"Shut up!" he snapped. "Tell me about your interviews already."

Levison took a swallow of her coffee before speaking. "I only got to speak to the roommate, Dr. James Wilson." She dug through her large purse for her notebook. "His account of what happened was that he returned home to find the apartment door open and being concerned that his best friend was sick or injured he began to hunt around for Dr. House, finding him in his bedroom. Apparently our vic was lying naked on his bed with the ligature already tightened and tied around his neck. Wilson said that it didn't appear as if House had tied it himself. He ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and returned to House using the knife to cut the tie off. He called for help and then performed AR until the paramedics arrived. House is currently in a coma in Intensive Care so questioning him will have to wait, obviously."

"Did Wilson have any idea who the perp may be?" Warren asked before taking a drink from his mug.

"No," she answered, resting her elbows on the table, folding her hands together and resting her chin on them. "Actually, that's where the odd part of the interview comes in. Wilson insists that his relationship with House is strictly platonic and that they're best friends. Apparently House spent time in rehab recovering from a Vicodin addiction last year and was released on the condition that he live with someone and not alone, so Wilson took him in and they've been roommates since the end of August. He had no idea that his friend is bisexual--I had to spell it out to him that the perp had to have been a man and that House and his date had been engaging in erotic asphyxiation. Wilson claims to be straight and has been convinced that House was as well. That just doesn't sit right with me. How can you live with someone and claim to be his best friend and have absolutely no idea that he does both men and women? He seems completely stunned by the revelation but it just doesn't ring completely true."

"Interesting," Warren commented. "I've heard quite a different story from their neighbor. She witnessed House and our perp arrive earlier tonight on their way up to the loft and commented that she was surprised that House would be sleeping with someone else when Wilson is just 'crazy' about him—her words. According to her, she was present when Wilson proposed marriage to House. She told me that they've denied being gay but she's knows that they are. She claims to be able to see how much they are into each other."

Levison sat up in her seat, frowning. Obviously someone was lying because both stories couldn't be true. The question is, who had the greatest motivation to lie about the relationship between the two doctors? Her gut told her it was Wilson but she needed to get evidence to confirm it. If he was lying, then what was his motive?

"She described House's date as male, late thirties to early forties, a little shorter but bulkier than him, but fit," Warren continued. "He's blond and was wearing a red shirt and black pants and hard-toed safety shoes in black. I sent her with Avery to connect with an artist so hopefully we'll have a sketch we can use soon."

"That's excellent news," the younger detective said optimistically. "So, who do you think is telling the truth—the neighbor or the roommate?"

"I think the neighbor is," he answered without hesitating. "What motive has she to lie about it? She just happened to see House and his date fondling each other on the way to the elevator as she was picking up her mail and most of what she told me about the perp matches what we've found at the scene. Besides, I went looking around the rest of the apartment and found the master bedroom. Both bedrooms are being used but in the ensuite bathroom a safety bar has been installed. House is crippled and would need that bar to get in and out of the tub, so he's used that bathroom. There were two toothbrushes in there as well. I have a tentative theory."

Maddie returned with their orders, did a quality check and then left them again.

"Let me hear it," Levison said as she opened the salad dressing packet and poured it sparingly over her salad.

"Okay, I think that Wilson is lying about being gay. I think he and House were lovers who were trying to hide the fact to keep up appearances and keep their jobs at the hospital, but they slipped up around the neighbor and she knows the truth. For some reason House and Wilson had a falling out. They're both living in the same apartment but they're not sleeping with each other. In fact, House is seeing other people. House goes out and picks up another guy and brings him back to the apartment. They're screwing and at some point during that Wilson comes home and discovers that House is with someone else. Now I don't know if Wilson shows up after the strangling or before but his story is that he arrived after and claims that he and House are not gay and haven't been lovers. Either way, he knows more than he told you and it will probably be a good idea for us to find out why."

Levison pondered that for a few moments as she stabbed at a large piece of lettuce and put it in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed before speaking. "Wilson told me that he's currently dating his ex-wife and it's fairly serious, Toby. Did you see any indication around the loft that a woman may be hanging out there?"

Warren frowned and nodded. "I found a single floral stud earring in Wilson's bathroom and there was a toiletry bag under the sink. I didn't search the bag. Interesting. I was thinking a jealousy angle between Wilson and House but now…?"

His partner nodded her head, setting her fork down. "I thought jealousy as well, but it involved the woman. Maybe House and Wilson were lovers but it wasn't House that broke it off but Wilson because of his relationship with his ex. She's jealous of House still living there and arranges for someone to pick up House and they end up at the loft where the date proceeds to attempt to kill the doctor. Or, House is jealous and causing problems for Wilson and his ex so Wilson lays in wait to kill House when he comes home but when he doesn't come home alone, he and his date have sex, the date leaves then Wilson strangles House and sets it up to look like the date did it." She shook her head and smiled ruefully. "Of course this all still conjecture at this point. It's also possible that the neighbor is right about the doctors being gay and Wilson is telling the truth about what happened when he got home from work but lied about having a relationship with House out of fear or shame or whatever. Or the neighbor is completely wrong about them being gay and Wilson is telling the truth—he's straight and believed House was too because our vic has been living a double life and keeping it a secret from everyone including his best friend. It'll be nice when we start getting some info back from forensics and we have a sketch of our suspect. We'll be able to clear some of this up."

"I have a piece of good news I haven't told you yet," Warren informed her, talking with his mouth full. "A matchbook was found on House's bedroom floor. The front flap was torn off but there was a number on the back. I called it and got the Spectra Lounge."

"That's the gay nightclub on the forty-seven hundred Block and Exeter, isn't it?" she asked.

"That's the one," Warren confirmed. "I was thinking that once we're done here we take a drive over there and ask a few questions. It's highly possible that House and our suspect hooked up there. If so, somebody might have seen them together and maybe somebody with be able to provide us with a name."

"It's worth a shot," Levison agreed before taking a large bite out of her sandwich. She couldn't shake the feeling that Wilson was definitely hiding something. He had seemed to be genuinely shocked about hearing that House was bisexual. It just didn't jive and she itched to find out why.

* * *

Wilson sat reclined in a chair next to House's bedside, sleeping fitfully. His hand extended out across the space between chair and bed and his fingers were laced loosely with the long, slender digits on the diagnostician's hand. The older man was still comatose, still in critical but stable condition. The oncologist had refused to go lay down in his office to get some sleep when Lisa Cuddy had suggested it to him. He had told her that he wasn't leaving House's side. If he woke up Wilson didn't him to find himself all alone in the small IC cubicle, hooked up to gadgets and monitors and IV bags. House had sat vigil over him following his live donation of a lobe of his liver to an unworthy 'friend'. The least he could do for his best friend was the same. What Wilson hadn't told Cuddy was that _he_ needed to be with House just as much as the _diagnostician_ needed him there. After coming so close to losing him, the oncologist had to be with him to make certain that he really was alive and remained that way.

The oncologist had a dream that he arrived too late and had found House dead. He could hear House's disembodied spirit whisper in his ear, "_I was only with _him_ because I wanted him to be _you_. My only crime was falling in love with you…why did you abandon me again_?" Wilson awoke with a start, shaking from head to toe, panting for breath and crying, his face wet with tears. He proceeded to wipe the tears off of his face and check on the diagnostician to make certain his heart was still beating. House's words from the dream continued to haunt him so he took his friend's limp hand in both of his own now.

"Why didn't you tell me after all this time?" Wilson said softly, realizing that the diagnostician probably couldn't hear a word he said. Perhaps that's why he was able to speak at all. "Did you think I would stop being your friend if I knew you were bi? Were you afraid that I'd walk away again? God, House! I'll carry the guilt of that to the day I die…you know that I was terrified of losing you like I had Amber." He paused a moment and swallowed hard to keep his emotions at bay. "I'll be your friend no matter what your sexual orientation is. How couldn't I? You're like a part of me. I love you…I know you know that, don't you?" He sighed. "Was she right? Are you jealous of Sam because…because you're in love with…me? You probably would never tell me if I asked you when you were awake. You'd be afraid of how I'd respond. You'd worry that I would hate you for it and…walk away again.

"The thing is…I don't know how I would feel, and that's what scares the hell out of me. I _should_ know. I should be able to say to you right now that I would tell you that I'm your friend but that's all it will ever be. But…I'm just not absolutely certain. Hell, I'm not certain at _all_, and I don't know what the fuck that means." Wilson stared at House's impassive expression and chuckled bitterly. "You bastard! It's just like you to throw me a curve ball and sit back and watch me squirm so you can find out a little bit more about the way I tick! Well, if you ever completely figure me out, let me in on the secret, will you? Because I just don't know myself--!" His voice broke and he stopped speaking, another tear blazing a trail down his cheek. "You've got to wake up, you idiot! Enough's enough! You've made your goddamned point so open your eyes and talk to me! I can't assure you that I will always be your best friend if you're in La-La Land. Stop being a stubborn ass and come back! Please…."

Wilson lowered his head until his forehead rested on the mattress next to the diagnostician's side and silently sobbed.


	4. Chapter 4

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **The confusion for Wilson—and the detectives—continues. Once again, the editing feature here is screwy again so scene breaks will be marked as before. At the end of the last sentence of the scene will be --------. That will tell you that the next paragraph begins the next scene. Sure would be nice if Fanfiction would get this issue cleared up....:(

**Warning:** This is a H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Four**

"Feeling conspicuous yet?"

Tobias Warren looked down at his partner as they walked in the doors of The Spectra Lounge and looked around at the nightclub operating in full gear now. The place was packed with men dancing, drinking, talking, laughing and making all kinds of connections.

"Wipe that smirk off your face," Detective Anne Levison retorted calmly, feeling completely at ease in the gay establishment—after all, in this meat market she was a pumpkin. "Someone here might think you're flirting."

"Oh yeah," Warren replied sarcastically, "Like there's a lot of guys here who are my type. I'm sure my wife would find that very interesting." They walked towards the bar where every stool was occupied.

At the bar Levison excused herself with a smile to one of the patrons as she pushed up closely to it. Warren held back some, looking around the dance floor with uncomfortable curiosity.

"Excuse me!" Levison shouted to the bartender closest to her; there were three on duty back there. Each of them could easily work as male models on the side. The redhead turned to look at her and smiled like he was looking at quarter in among a handful of pennies. He sauntered over to her and leaned on the bar on his elbows, checking her out. She returned his look with a confident smile.

"Hello there, beautiful," he said to her. "I think you're in the wrong place but hey, to each her own. What can I get you?"

"Some information," she replied, pulling her badge from her pocket and showing it to him discreetly. He looked at it and briefly his smile faltered before returning as he recovered from his surprise.

"What is this, a raid?" he said teasingly. "Should I call my lawyer now or after you cuff me?" He winked.

"Not a raid," she replied with a smirk. He was a smart aleck—harmless. "Were you working earlier this evening say…around six-thirty, seven o'clock?"

"Yeah," he replied, his smile losing some of its sparkle. "I opened tonight. Rudy over there," he nodded to a twenty-something blond with blue tinted spikes in his hair, "Came in at eight. Why are you asking? Did I do something wrong?"

"I don't know, did you?" she asked, still smiling in an effort to put him at ease. "What's _your_ name?"

"David," he told her, looking her up and down again. "Who's asking?"

"Detective Levison," she told him. "Are you due for a break, soon? My partner and I have a few questions to ask you, nothing to do with you."

David hesitated and then smiled slyly. "Only if you tell me your first name. I don't talk to strangers—something my mother taught me."

"Annie," she told him, nodding. "Now we're acquaintances. The stiff standing behind me is Toby. We'll be waiting for you at that table," she pointed to a table nearby that had just been vacated. "Don't take long."

Without waiting for him to respond Levison turned her back on him and grabbed Warren's arm on her way to the table. They sat. Immediately a waiter was there. "What can I get for you?"

Levison couldn't help but notice how buff he looked and sighed. Was it really true that all the good guys left in the world were either taken or gay? What in fuck's sake was an attractive single, straight woman supposed to do?

"I'll have a club soda with lime," she ordered. The waiter looked at Toby and she swore she saw him flick his tongue across his lower lip when he looked at Warren.

"Nothing," her grumpy partner quickly said, frowning.

The waiter walked away, looking a little disappointed.

"That one wants you," she told her partner. "I'll be damned if I know why."

"This place makes my skin crawl," Warren told her crossly.

"Homophobe," she quipped just as David arrived at their table and pulled up a chair.

"Who is?" the redhead asked, looking at Warren pointedly.

"Never mind," Levison told him, drawing the bartender's attention again. "Earlier this evening a man in this neighborhood was nearly murdered by a date he brought home. We have reason to believe he picked the guy up here before heading over to his place. Do you remember seeing a middle-aged man with graying brown hair cropped very short here earlier? He is tall, attractive, has three-day's growth of a beard and walks with a cane?"

As she described Dr. Gregory House to him, the bartender had frowned and shrugged—until she mentioned the cane. At that point his eyes widened in recognition.

"Yes, I do," David told her with a nod. "He came in here alone…looked like he came more for the booze than the company—pretty long-faced. Silent and sexy type—_you_ know. He seemed to turn a few eyes, too. New flesh always attracts attention."

Warren sat forward in his seat. "You mean this was the first time you've ever seen him at the Spectra?"

Nodding, David answered, "Yes—but I only work three nights a week here. He could be a regular on the weekends and I wouldn't know it. Is he the guy who was nearly murdered?"

Levison nodded grimly. "Yes. Did he meet anyone here? Maybe left with someone?"

David sized her up again and Levison began to wonder if the bartender wasn't an omnivore like their vic. "Yes," he told her. "With one of our regulars. A juicy morsel, too. Don't know the guy's name but he's here every time I work. I've never seen him leave alone, either."

"Describe him," Warren demanded gruffly. Levison could tell that her partner was quickly reaching the extent of his tolerance for the place and the people. She sighed silently. His bigotry often made her job a lot more difficult than it had to be.

It was obvious that the bartender didn't like Warren much. "Six foot, blond, looked fit. He wore a red shirt and black trousers." David looked to Levison when he asked, "You think he was the one who attacked Silent and Sexy?"

"We don't know yet," she told him honestly, "but it's definitely a possibility."

The waiter returned with her drink and set it down in front of the detective.

"Ask Stan here," David told Levison, nodding at the waiter who lingered when his name was mentioned. "He was their server. Look, I gotta get back to work, okay?"

Levison glanced at Warren. When the senior partner made no move to stop him, she smiled and nodded. "Okay. Thanks for your help," she said.

Grinning, David began to leave and then paused to say something more to Levison. "You know, Annie, my boyfriend and I like to do something different from time to time and I'm pretty sure he'd like you as much as I do…."

The female detective put her hand up to cut him off. "Thanks, David, but no. I'm a one guy at a time kind of gal."

The bartender grinned toothily at that. "Okay, but if you change your mind and are looking for something new, you know where to find me."

Levison raised an eyebrow and nodded once in acknowledgement. David returned to the bar. She'd been propositioned a fair number of times in the past, but this had been her first threesome request. She wasn't certain how to take it.

Returning her attention to Stan, she gestured for him to sit down but the server shook his head. He looked very nervous. It occurred to her that he had no idea who Warren and she were and what it was they wanted to ask him.

"I'm Detective Levison and this is my partner, Detective Warren," she introduced. "We're with the sheriff's department. We're investigating an attempted murder of a guest from here earlier this evening. David obviously thinks you may be able to clarify a few things for us. Would you mind answering a few questions? It'll only take a couple of minutes of your time."

Stan looked nervously from Levison to Warren. "I'm working right now--." He told them and then turned to hurry away when Levison caught a hold of his wrist gently.

"Just a couple of questions," she told him again, smiling hopefully. "You can stay standing if you want so your boss doesn't freak out. Okay?"

After a moment or two of hesitation Stan sighed and relented. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

She told him about House and described him to the waiter. "Do you remember serving him?" she asked.

A smirk cracked his frightened countenance and nodded slightly. "Yeah, I remember the guy. He checked out my ass every time I walked past, even grabbed it once. It's an occupational hazard. I'm not even gay—I just work here because the tips alone are putting me through law school."

Levison had to grin at that and looked over at Warren to see him looking at the waiter like he was a lunatic that had just escaped from the asylum. _Oh, Toby…._ she thought with a mental sigh of exasperation.

"David told us that a regular attendee of the Spectra Lounge picked up the victim," the female detective told Stan matter-of-factly. "Do recall anything like that occurring?"

"Yes," the waiter answered with a nod. "Davin bought your guy a drink which I delivered to his table. Couple of minutes later they we're drinking up a storm and were all over each other. They left together."

"Davin, you say?" Warren interjected suddenly. "That's the name of House's date? You don't happen to know his last name, do you?" He looked over to Levison meaningfully and she simply nodded once in acknowledgement.

"No," Stan answered, shaking his head. "You don't hear a lot of last names floating around this place. Privacy and discretion are big around here. Some of these guys are public figures, executives, professionals—and they have their reasons for not wanting word of their preferences, shall we say, getting back to their wives and bosses, or the press."

"Do you know if House frequents this place on a regular basis?" Levison asked him.

Stan shook his head. "I've never seen him around here before today but as you can see, there are a lot of people here tonight. It's possible that I just never noticed him before."

The female detective nodded and considered what she had heard for a moment or two before asking, "This Davin…how often does he come here and when could we expect him to be in again? Do you know?"

"He comes in every Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights," the waiter told her. "He arrives at six-thirty like clockwork. He probably won't be back again tonight but he'll be here tomorrow night. Saturday nights tend to be his luckiest nights."

_Then we'll be back_, Levison thought. "Thank you, Stan. You've been very helpful."

Smiling weakly the waiter walked away, assuming correctly that the detectives were done with him. Levison turned to her partner and smirked. "You know what this means?" she asked him.

Warren nodded, frowning a little less than he usually did. "Yeah. Avery and Tsui get to go on a date tomorrow night and keep an eye out for this Davin character. By the way, you're telling them. I have a wife at home to think about."

They rose from the table. Levison paid for the club soda and then they left, heading for their respective homes for the night.-----

Wilson woke with a start when he felt a hand touch his shoulder and shake him gently. He lifted his head from off of the hospital bed and blinked his chocolate brown eyes a couple of times to clear the initial bleariness he saw. He realized that he must have cried himself to sleep at some point in the middle of the night. He sat up and looked to the source of the hand on his shoulder. He smiled.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Dr. Samantha Carr said to him, brushing a strand of her curly blonde hair behind her ear. She wore a frown of concern as she bent down and placed a soft kiss on the oncologist's lips. She pressed a little firmer after a moment, obviously wanting to deepen the kiss between them but Wilson wasn't in the mood. He gently put a hand on her shoulder and pushed away from her, offering her an apologetic smile. She looked a little surprised by his reaction but said nothing about it. He watched as she looked down on House's unconscious form with unreadable blue eyes. She shook her head slowly.

"Good morning, Sam," Wilson told her, placing his hands in the hollow of his back and pressing in as he stretched his stiff and sore back out. "Exactly what time is it, anyway?"

"Seven-thirty," she told him without bothering to look at her watch. "You've been here all night with him." It was a statement, not a question. She reached down and caressed his dark brown hair almost as if she was petting him as one would pet an animal. It was an affectation she had always had towards him and it had always annoyed him, but especially so this morning. Wilson reached up and grabbed her hand and held it more to keep her from petting him anymore than for any other reason—but he didn't tell her that.

"I must have fallen asleep," the oncologist stated the obvious. "Oh, God—I forgot to call you and let you know what had happened, didn't I?"

Sam nodded, her lips pressed together.

"I'm sorry about that," he apologized to her, shaking his head. "It all just happened so quickly and then I was so worried about him…." His voice trailed off and he sighed, looking at the diagnostician's blank face. House still appeared pale and fragile; it twisted Wilson's heart just to look at him. His still being in a coma without any sign of improvement that was visible, anyway, was not good. The longer he remained comatose the greater the odds were that he would never wake up. It was an indication that he had, indeed, suffered brain damage, perhaps devastatingly so.

His ex-wife/present girlfriend grabbed a chair from the corner of the small cubicle and placed it next to Wilson's so she could sit next to him. She took the hand that Wilson still had clamped around House's into her own.

"I was concerned about you, James," she told him softly, and Wilson wondered if he was in fact detecting a hint of a reprimand in the tone of her voice. He told himself that he wasn't, that he was just sleep deprived.

"When I called the loft and no one answered I figured something had gone wrong," she continued. "I called the hospital and they told me you were here but they wouldn't tell me what had happened." She looked at him, waiting for Wilson to tell her what had happened without having to ask the question.

He wasn't certain he wanted to relate to her the gory details of the night before; he didn't want to have to relive it all again. He was especially reticent to tell her about the revelation about House's sexuality he'd received; he knew that the diagnostician didn't like Sam and would be upset if he knew that Wilson had told her something so personal about him without his knowing. Wilson also didn't want to say anything about the possibility that House was in love with him. It just wasn't something a guy felt comfortable about revealing to his girlfriend first thing in the morning.

"I arrived home last night," the oncologist began, choosing his words carefully, "to find that someone had tried to strangle House to death. If I had been just a couple of minutes delayed he probably would have died before help could have arrived in time." He swallowed hard to repress the urge to sob again. "He's been in a coma since he was brought in here by ambulance. There's no telling how long he went without breathing before I found him…the brain damage may be…quite extensive. He's going to be taken for a CT scan later this morning to see just what the extent of the damage is. He may never recover--!" Wilson stopped speaking suddenly when his voice cracked with emotion. He couldn't hold back the pair or three tears that escaped his eyes.

Sam sat there, squeezing his hands, staring at House again and saying nothing. Her eyes were intense and her jaw was firmly set. Wilson had no idea what it was she was thinking but somehow he got the impression that it wasn't sympathy or concern.

"Who would want to kill Greg?" she asked in a monotone voice. "I mean, was it a break in? Did he startle an intruder who then attacked him?"

Frowning quizzically, Wilson looked at her and shook his head. "I didn't say anything about a break-in. In actual fact the police suspect that it _wasn't_ a break-in and random attack."

Sam's eyes widened with surprise. "Oh," she told him. "I guess I just assumed…." She cocked her head. "If it wasn't a break-in, then what exactly was it?"

Wilson sighed, realizing that he should have just allowed her to believe it was whatever she wanted to believe. Now he had to say something and he didn't want to lie to her, not now that they were reconciling and thinking about a future together.

"The police believe it was probably someone House allowed into the loft," the oncologist told her vaguely. It wasn't a lie, and he didn't have to say anything potentially embarrassing for House.

"Oh," she said softly. "Like an acquaintance or a friend or…a date?"

_Damnit, drop it already!_ Wilson thought in frustration. He had to admit, however, that her questions were fair ones. She was simply showing her concern for a person who was very important to him. How could he get angry at her for that?

"I-it's too early to know for certain," he told her, trying desperately not to start stammering. Sam knew what it meant when he started stammering. He withdrew one of his hands from hers and placed it on House's again, squeezing gently. If he was subconsciously aware of external stimuli the oncologist wanted him to know that he was there with him—that he wasn't alone. He noticed how Sam had intently followed the movement of his hand with her eyes.

Just as quickly, Sam smiled broadly with her mouth at her boyfriend/ex-husband. "Well, she told him brightly. "You've been here all night and I'll bet you didn't even have dinner last night, either?"

"Well, no, I…."

She wouldn't allow him to finish. "You need to eat and freshen up, maybe go home and get a little sleep. There's no need for you to make yourself sick, now, is there? Come, I'll take you to breakfast and then I'll drive you back to the loft--."

Looking at her as if she was crazy, Wilson tried to smile but it didn't turn out to look like anything of the kind. "No!"

Drawing back and frowning in surprise, she echoed, "W-what?"

The oncologist shook his head adamantly. "I'm not leaving his side for any longer than a trip to the bathroom, Sam! I want to be here when he comes out of his coma. I don't want him to wake up alone."

"But you said yourself," the blonde responded, frowning, "that he might never wake up! James, you've got to eat and shower! He could remain in this coma for weeks, months…you can't just put your life on hold!"

Wilson didn't respond right away, just staring at her for a few moments. How could she be so callous as to say those kinds of things—especially in the same room as the man she was talking about? Yes, it was true that he may have lost his best friend for good—but it was equally true that House could wake up at any moment with very few aftereffects. He knew that he would have to take basic measures of self-care but he could do almost everything he needed to do at the hospital. How _couldn't_ he put his life on hold for now for his best friend? Isn't that what best friends did for each other? He couldn't concern himself with his own self-interest right now; didn't she understand just how important House was to him?

"I don't want to argue with you about this, especially not here," the oncologist told her, his anger rising, "but I'm not leaving here! Maybe I haven't made it clear to you how important House is to me; I've been remiss."

Sam looked like she was about to yell at him but at the last moment she stopped herself and took a deep, calming breath instead. Once she was better able to speak civilly she looked at him and smiled sympathetically. Or was that pity? Wilson wasn't certain but it was a lot better than the anger that had been on her face and in her eyes just moments before.

"James," she said softly, taking his hand off of House's once more. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just worried about you, that's all. I mean, I know that you and House are very close and I'm great with that! I really am! It's just that…I guess I'm a little worried that this began as a ploy to manipulate our relationship but House lost control of the situation and it went just a little too far and he got hurt. I mean, you know how hard he's been trying to break us up--."

Utterly unable to believe what he was hearing come out of his girlfriend/ex-wife's mouth, Wilson yanked his hands away from Sam's grasp. He felt his face getting red from the anger that was welling up and threatening to explode out of him. He stood quickly, the stiff muscles in his back and legs protesting against the sudden movement, and grabbed her under the arm, lifting her to her feet and dragging her out of the small IC cubicle. She was sputtering and protesting with indignity and surprise. Once they were out of earshot of House's room the oncologist let loose.

"Some kind of _ploy_?" the oncologist yelled, not caring who heard him or what they thought about it. "He was found with a neck tie wrapped around his neck and knotted so tightly it had _completely blockedoff his trachea_ for several minutes! Do you understand what that means? This was no trick on House's part to piss us off! Somebody tried to murder him and they came way too close to succeeding! How dare you cast those kinds of dispersions on him?! And for your information, what House has done so far is nothing compared to what he is capable of doing! He told me he was just trying to protect me from getting hurt by you again. Believe me, if House wanted us apart, we'd be apart—that man doesn't give up on things that he sets his mind to! My God, Sam! You just put the blame of the attempted murder on him on _his_ shoulders! Don't you realize how _insane_ you sound?"

"Me, insane?" Sam hissed, keeping her voice low in spite of her anger. She began to poke him hard in the chest as she spoke. "You're the one ranting and screaming here, James!" She paused a moment, staring at her hand. She stopped poking him. "I didn't mean to hurt you, okay? I was just pointing out a possibility. You know House much better than I do, so if you feel I'm off- base then I'll take your word for it. Honey…look, I put my foot in my mouth and I'm sorry. I'll try to be more sensitive, I promise I will."

Wilson looked her in the eyes. They _looked_ sincere. Maybe he was overreacting a little. After all, he _was_ exhausted and under a great deal of pressure…maybe they both were behaving a little crazy. He knew that he really didn't feel like arguing. His worry for House combined with his confusion over learning about House's bisexuality and how he had been hiding it so perfectly that not even his best friend had suspected was making him crazy.

"I'm on edge," he acknowledged, averting his eyes and nodding. He rubbed the back of his neck absently. "Let's just forget this even happened, okay? Just start the morning over?"

A pleased smile crossed Sam's face and she nodded, drawing him into an embrace. "Good morning, James," she said with a wink. Wilson nodded, grudgingly smiling back.

"Good morning," he said in return. Sam leaned forwards and placed a tender kiss on his lips. The oncologist returned it but was the first to pull away. "Tell you what—why don't we go to the cafeteria and have a quick bite. That way I'm right here in the hospital; should House's status change they can page me and I'll be right up there."

"Sounds good," she agreed with a nod and a peck on the end of his nose.

He nodded. "Okay, I need to talk to House's nurse first. Why don't you go down ahead and I'll meet you there in a couple of minutes?"

"Okay," she told him and then pressed a quick kiss to his lips before releasing her hold on him and walking away towards the elevators. He watched her go but as soon as she entered the elevator the smile on Wilson's face faded away and a frown replaced it. He exhaled loudly through his nose, shaking his head.

Returning to House's cubicle briefly Wilson looked down at his best friend's face.

"She hates you," Wilson murmured to him, obviously troubled by the admission. "You hate her too…but at least you've been upfront about it from the start. She wants me to believe that she likes you, but she doesn't. I think you were right…I don't think she and I are going to work out. Then again, when aren't you right, you jack-ass? Just once I'd like to see you be wrong about issues concerning me. Okay…I'll only be gone a little while. Feel free to wake up anytime."

The oncologist paused a moment, just standing and looking at House for a moment thoughtfully. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain that no one was watching. Satisfied that they were alone Wilson leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his best friend's forehead, brushed the spot softly with his thumb, and then stood back up quickly and headed for the nursing station. He didn't get three steps out of the cubicle when a voice called his name. He turned towards the address to see Detective Levison standing next to the glass wall of House's IC room. With her was an older fellow, craggy-looking and grumpy. Both of them stared at him solemnly, accusingly. He felt a chill run down his spine.

"Hi," Wilson said warily, standing still. "I guess you thought of more questions to ask me? You know, if you don't mind, can we do this later? I have some business to attend to here and then I--."

"That was a very touching scene just now," The man told him with a growly voice, frowning. His words dripped with sarcasm. "The kiss you gave Dr. House? _Very_ sweet—loving, even."

The oncologist frowned, confused. He hadn't seen anybody standing there when he had looked…? "I'm sorry, but I don't think we've met."

Levison took a few steps towards him. "But we have, Dr. Wilson, remember? Det. Levison and my partner, Det. Warren. Ring a bell?"

Trying a smile to alleviate the tension that existed between them, the oncologist replied, "Of course! I remember you, Detective. It's nice to meet you, Det. Warren."

"Are you sure about that?" the older detective asked him in a deep tone of voice.

Wilson had no idea how to respond to that, so he looked questioningly at Levison. She stared back at him expressionlessly.

"I'm afraid our conversation can't wait, Doctor," she told him calmly. "You see, we've run into a few inconsistencies between what you told me last night and what other witnesses have told us concerning you and Dr. House. We'd really like to get things straightened out. We can go somewhere around here to talk for a few minutes or you can come with us to our station if you prefer—but we're going to talk. Now."


	5. Chapter 5

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **Wow! You guys always make me feel so good with your reviews! It's especially encouraging with this fic since it's edgier and darker than what I usually write. I'm very much into angst and drama (probably because I totally suck at writing comedy!) but it's not usually quite this dark when it pertains to the major characters. In fact, family members who know me read this fic and are astounded that this came out of my head! They're looking at me a little differently lately and I don't know if that's necessarily a good thing…oh, well! Lol! I yams who I yam. Again, un-beta-ed, yadda yadda.

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Five**

They sat in James Wilson's office, the detectives at the chairs before his desk and the Chief of Oncology behind it, perched nervously in the leather desk chair, leaning forward on his desk. His hair was a tousled mess, dark circles hung below furtive brown eyes and deep lines had established themselves across his forehead, around his eyes and on either side of his mouth, causing him to look much older than his early forties. He rubbed his face, which was covered with a day and a half of beard growth when he was normally meticulously clean-shaven. His emotional state appeared to indicate that he could begin to cry or rage, one or the other, at the drop of a hat.

Warren knew that in such a state he would easily break if pressured enough. He hoped that Wilson didn't know a great deal about his right to remain silent even when he wasn't under arrest.

"L-look," Wilson said, unable to control the stammering any longer, "I've already t-told you everything I know. Believe m-me! If I knew anything th-that would help-p you find the guy who did this t-to House I would tell you r-right away. I-I have somebody waiting t-to meet with me right now. Just ask m-me what you want t-to and go."

The senior detective glanced askance at Levison. They had already discussed how they would handle things. He saw her face soften and she nodded to the oncologist with empathy. Warren returned his unwavering gaze to Wilson.

"Dr. Wilson," Levison told him soothingly, "Please calm down. I understand that you're upset but if you truly want us to find the man who attacked your friend then you'll cooperate with us right now, okay?" She pulled out a digital voice recorder and held it up so Wilson could clearly see that they were recording this. "Now, what I want to know first of all is why you lied to me yesterday about the nature of your relationship with Dr. House?"

His eyes widening in surprise, Wilson then frowned in confusion. "Lie to you? I-I didn't lie to you!"

"Cut the crap," Warren spoke up sharply. His growly voice could be very intimidating and he used that now to its full effect. "You told Det. Levison that you're not gay and that there is nothing sexual going on between you and House but we happen to know that's just not true, so why don't you drop the act and start telling us the truth!"

Wilson stared at the other man, nonplussed, before breaking into an astonished laugh. The sound of it was sharp, nearly hysterical, like he was on the edge of a complete breakdown.

"You're insane, do you know that?" the doctor told both detectives once the laughter had passed. "We are _just friends_. We live together as part of House's release requirements but we are _not_ having sex! I think _I_ would know if there was something going on!"

"Doctor," Levison spoke up, leveling a stern look on him. "We found indicators around your home that suggest otherwise and we have testimony of witnesses in your condo complex that House and you are undoubtedly lovers! One neighbor told one of our investigators that House admitted to having lover's quarrels with you and another said that she was present when you proposed marriage to him. Either you are lying to us or they are. Why would they lie about something like that?"

It interested Warren when the oncologist didn't have an immediate answer. He seemed to be searching his mind for an answer, trying to find one that would be believable. Wilson combed his hand through his hair and licked his lips.

"What about it?" the male detective demanded gruffly.

Fanning his hands out in front of him, the oncologist answered, "Look, the one neighbor…her name wouldn't happen to be Nora, would it? Just after House and I moved into the building we both were interested in dating Nora. Actually I saw her first but House being House decided to break the guy code and pursue her. It was like a competition between us—who could bed her first. I know, I know, that sounds terrible…." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. "House's plan was to convince her that he and I were gay so she wouldn't accept my request that she have dinner with me. She already had it in her mind that two grown men over thirty living together just _had_ to be gay. He just played on that."

Levison shook her head, genuinely looking puzzled. "I don't understand," she told the doctor. "If Dr. House wanted to date her, why would he tell her that he was gay as well? Wouldn't that deter her from him the same way that thinking you were gay would deter her from you? You see how that doesn't make sense?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. Warren bristled at the disdain that he was showing them. He had quite the attitude, this one.

"Let me finish," he told Levison in response. "His plan was to convince her that we were gay but that we were having relationship issues and he needed a sympathetic ear to talk to about it. Apparently he portrayed me as a hard-nosed, neglectful man who was ashamed of his lover…regardless, he wanted to get her sympathy and lead her to believe that our relationship was breaking up so she would feel bad for him in his vulnerability and then they would sit and chat over wine, he'd get her drunk and she'd go to bed with him, converting him from homosexuality. It was all a gag!"

"Except for the fact that Dr. House really _is_ bisexual," Warren told him, frowning.

"But I didn't know that at the time," Wilson pointed out. "I still can't believe it…if you knew House you'd have trouble believing it, too."

"Apparently other people don't have as much trouble believing it as you do," the female detective commented, her expression hardening somewhat. "The other neighbor I mentioned? He said that the two of you were arguing at two-thirty in the morning on one occasion. He said it had something to do about music in the middle of the night while one of you was trying to sleep. The neighbor said he went over to your apartment and knocked on the door. Dr. House answered the door and when the neighbor asked him what the hell was going on, he says your 'best friend' told him that it was simply a lover's quarrel and that the two of you would kiss and make up and then apologized for the noise."

"Oh my God, House, you jerk!" Wilson muttered and shook his head, appearing to be speaking more to him than to the detectives. To them, the oncologist explained, "House…he likes screwing with people's minds, especially mine. He knows that I'd be mortified if I found out that he's been telling our neighbors that we're lovers so that's why he does it. It's not true."

"That's interesting," Warren said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with a knuckle. "Didn't you just say that that was exactly the way he portrayed you to Nora—a hard, neglectful man who would undoubtedly be mortified if the truth of his homosexuality were to come out thus the relationship issues between him and his lover?"

Wilson looked at the older detective, astonished, dumbfounded. Again he appeared to be searching for words and having a difficult time doing so.

"There's also the question of the proposal," Levison said to break the silence and keep up the pressure. "You claim that Dr. House has been telling people that you two are lovers just to screw with you, if you'll pardon the pun, but according to Nora, _you_ were the one who proposed to _him_…in front of _her_, thus in effect outing _yourself_. If you two aren't involved and you didn't want her to think that you were gay so that she would date you, what on earth would possess you to make it appear that you _are_ by asking Dr. House to marry you in front of her?"

"B-but it wasn't real!" Wilson insisted again, throwing his hands up in the air. His voice was quickly growing louder and more insistent. "I went to the restaurant that night to screw with House's plans to seduce her. By asking him to marry me, his claim that he and I were on the outs would be refuted by my profession of love and thus he couldn't take her back to her place to cry on her shoulder and get her into bed. She left convinced more than ever that we were gay and a couple."

Warren looked over at Levison, astonished at what he'd just heard. She looked to him with the same thoughts. The guy had just screwed up and contradicted himself.

"You not only proposed to Dr. House in front of Nora but also in front of a restaurant full of people?" Levison asked him, her eyes as wide as saucers. "Yet you expect us to believe that you're not lovers, that Dr. House has been lying to your neighbors about the two of you being gay to 'screw' with your head and that you wanted to date Nora while at the same time telling us that you confirmed her suspicions by proposing to your best friend with whom you are supposedly not involved, in a public place, but you don't want people to think you're gay, except you did want her to believe that your non-existent relationship was stronger and better than ever, so that House couldn't sleep with her because you wanted to but just eliminated that possibility by what you did? Are you _serious_? Do you really think that Det. Warren and I are _that_ stupid? Dr. Wilson, you've been caught in an obvious lie! Make things easier on yourself and start telling us the truth! Your lies only make you look guilty!"

Wilson jumped to his feet suddenly, causing Warren and Levison to do so as well, their hands moving to their holsters, his at his hip and hers at her shoulder.

"I am telling you the truth!" he yelled.

"No!" Warren argued, nearly as loudly. "No, I'll tell you what the truth is! The truth is you've just contradicted your own story. For God's sake, Doctor!—I saw the safety grab bar in your ensuite bathroom that was obviously installed to assist Dr. House in getting out of your bathtub—the one you both use because you both also use your bedroom, don't you? Dark brown hairs were found on House's bed even though House's hair is grey and a lighter brown and the perp was blond. The truth is, you two are lovers, or at least had been, but House was telling Nora the truth about you…that you're neglectful and embarrassed by your homosexuality and want to keep it under wraps, thus hurting House. You didn't mind sabotaging his attempt to move on with his life with her by allowing her and a bunch of strangers know that you're gay since she already knew and they don't know you from Adam.

"You don't want him but you don't want anyone else to have him either. You're jealous of anyone else that House might become involved with, aren't you? You want to have your cake and to eat it too: A secret gay affair that doesn't compromise your professional image, thus your so-called attempt to ask Nora out for a date, but when she didn't fall for it and House showed an interest in her you had to sabotage that because you like controlling him…It's a power issue with you, isn't it? But something unexpected happened, didn't it, Doctor? House tried to escape your control, wanting to find a little happiness for himself, so he went to The Spectra Lounge and picked up a date, brought him home when he knew you would be out—but things went bad for him, didn't they?

"So what happened, Dr. Wilson? _Truthfully_. Did House just pick up a real loser and get himself strangled by him only to be saved in the nick of time by his very best friend who just happened to have no idea that he was bisexual even after knowing him for nearly twenty years and living with him for nearly a year? Or is the truth something much more sinister? What happened? Did you come home early and catch your former lover and his date screwing? Did your jealousy take you over? Did you want to make House pay for his betrayal, his disobedience? Did you scare off House's lover and then strangle him yourself?"

"No!" Wilson screamed, appearing to be devastated by the mere suggestion that he had done anything to hurt the diagnostician. His eyes held angry tears.

"Did you plan on pinning this on House's date, making everything look like he was strangled by a stranger before calling for help and propagating your lie?"

"Stop it!" the oncologist cried, tears flowing now. "That's not true! I would never do anything to harm him! I care too much about him to do that!"

"I know that you care about him. I do. You care so much about him," Levison spoke up, her voice almost gentle, "that you would do anything to keep him for yourself; That's why seeing him with someone else in the throes of love-making was more than you were able to bear. Doctor, you didn't mean to hurt him. You love him, right? It hurt so badly that you kind of lost it, didn't you? You just reached your breaking point and then the next thing you knew he was unconscious and dying. You didn't really want to hurt him, did you? It just went a little too far and so you decided you had to cover up your relationship with House so nobody would guess that you lost your mind with jealousy and hurt him. You've even done a good job of convincing yourself that you weren't responsible. What you didn't anticipate was Nora seeing House and his date arrive and thus reporting to us what she saw and knew. Suddenly, your little glass house that you built around yourself began to crack and now you don't know what to say. Isn't _that_ the truth?"

Warren smiled to himself; his partner was _good_. She was almost convincing _him_ that she cared about the oncologist and was trying to understand things from his perspective. Wilson was simply shaking his head and whispering no, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

The male detective was about to take over from Levison when there was a pounding on the door followed immediately by an outraged Lisa Cuddy storming into the office.

"Wilson, what the hell is going on here? I can hear you from the lobby!" the Dean of Medicine demanded. She eyed the detectives suspiciously with grey-blue eyes. "James," she said in a softer tone, seeing that her Chief of Oncology had tears running down his face and was trembling from head to toe. "Are you alright? What's going on?" Cuddy turned to glare at the detectives, standing akimbo.

"Lisa, they think I d-did it," Wilson said to her, his voice now barely a whisper. He had one hand on his brow and the other on his hip, "They think _I_ t-tried to kill House."

Cuddy's expression went from one of concern to confusion and then to outrage. "That's absolutely ridiculous!" she told the detectives. "James Wilson would never do anything to harm another person--especially not his best friend! What on _earth_ would lead you to believe such a ridiculous idea as that?"

"Do you want to tell her, Doctor," Warren said coldly, looking from Cuddy to the oncologist, "or should we?"

"Tell me what?" the hospital's chief administrator demanded, now looking to her friend for an answer. "James, what is he talking about?"

Wilson had been staring at the floor but now he looked up at Warren with hatred. It almost made the detective smile; In truth, looks can't kill.

"They think that…th-that House and I are lovers," he told her, avoiding her gaze. His cheeks were flushed already, so if he was embarrassed, one wouldn't have been able to tell that way.

"We _know_ that they are," Warren interrupted, answering the question forming in the Dean of Medicine's mind. "We have witnesses lined up that are willing to testify that they are and the good doctor here slipped up and revealed the truth himself. We know he was lying when he told my partner yesterday that he wasn't gay and that neither was House and that they were not romantically involved."

Cuddy looked like she was debating whether to get angry or to laugh. "Neither of them is gay!" she told them insistently, crossing her arms in front of her. "Dr. Wilson and I have been friends for quite some time now and believe me, if he were gay, I would know. He's been married to women in the past. I know this embarrasses him but the fact is he isn't known as 'the Panty-peeler' and 'Dr. Casanova' around this hospital for nothing! In fact, right now he's in a relationship with a woman."

"Yes!" Wilson said in agreement, glad that she had brought that last part up. "Her name is Sam—uh, short for _Samantha_--and she's actually one of my ex-wives but we've reconciled. She's downstairs in the cafeteria waiting for me as we speak!"

Cuddy frowned and shook her head at him, talking softly. "Actually, she's not. On my way up here I saw her leave the hospital, a little angry."

"That would be because I stood her up because I've been here being told that I'm gay by people who before last night didn't even know that I existed!" Wilson told the Dean of Medicine, annoyed.

"As for House—he's heterosexual through and through!" Cuddy said to Warren. "He was in a relationship with a woman that lasted six years before they broke up and he's only been ogling me since the first day he started working here! Besides, what does Wilson's and House's sexual orientations have anything to do with solving an assault that resulted from House choosing to hire some insane call-girl?"

At that there was silence for a few moments and that caused Cuddy to look between Wilson and the detectives with puzzlement. Warren watched her confusion and Wilson's sudden discomfort and resisted a smile. The oncologist hadn't bothered to tell his friend the truth of what happened to his 'roommate'. That was…_interesting_.

"I see you two haven't talked since my conversation with Dr. Wilson last night," Levison told her, looking askance at Wilson accusingly. "Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House's attack wasn't committed by a call-girl--."

"Stop!" Wilson said quickly to the female detective. "You're right…I didn't have a chance to tell her about our conversation. I think that this is something_ I_ need to tell her _privately_."

Cuddy scowled suspiciously at the oncologist. "What are you talking about? What haven't you told me?"

"Lisa, not now--!" Wilson began to say when he was interrupted by Levison.

"Why _not_ now, Dr. Wilson? If you're telling us all the truth then what do you have to hide? She's the only one here who doesn't know." Wilson glared at the female detective but she appeared to ignore that and continued to speak. "It wasn't a home invasion or another form of random attack. Dr. House was seen last night at a gay nightclub called The Spectra Lounge. He met a man there whose first name we've ascertained as being Davin. He happens to be a regular there according to some of the staff we spoke to. Those staff members saw House and Davin begin to kiss and fondle each other before leaving the club together. They were next seen in the lobby of the condo building where Dr. Wilson and he share a loft apartment. A neighbor was collecting her mail when she saw House and his date enter the building, continue going ape over each other and then get into the elevator to go upstairs to the loft."

Cuddy stood in stunned silence, her jaw having dropped in surprise, as she listened to Levison's account. When the female detective paused for breath the administrator turned to look at Wilson, who was staring at the floor with his hands on his hips, looking very unhappy.

"Wilson…?" she said questioningly, looking to him to deny everything Levison was telling her but the oncologist just shrugged and nodded, avoiding her eyes.

"Evidence was found in the loft of consensual sex having taken place between Dr. House and this Davin character. From Dr. Wilson's testimony as well as the reports filed by the attending ER physician on duty when House was brought in by ambulance and the Paramedics who arrived on the scene Dr. House was discovered unconscious and nude; the remnants of a tie used as a ligature were scattered on the bed and floor. It appears that he was participating in a form of erotic asphyxiation with Davin. Physical evidence on House's body and in his mouth indicated consensual oral and anal sexual activity. Samples of hair and semen left at both the loft and on House's person are being analyzed as we speak but it will be days, even weeks before results of DNA evaluation are available. We do know already that there were two different contributors of semen because two different blood types were identified."

Tears threatened Cuddy's eyes but Warren could see her stubbornly keep them at bay as she processed what she had just been told. There was no doubt at all in his mind that this came as a complete surprise to the Dean of Medicine.

"No," Cuddy said, shaking her head. "No, that can't be true! I can believe that perhaps House was raped by a man but…James? It's not true—right? House isn't gay! Damn it! I know for a _fact_ that he's not gay because he…he and I…a long time ago…we had sex. In college."

Wilson sighed, putting a hand on the administrator's shoulder. "Lisa," he told her softly, looking pained at having to have this conversation about House with her, "It's true. I couldn't believe it myself when I was told about it but…House is bisexual. He's been keeping it from our knowledge all this time."

"My god," she murmured. "And he never told _you_, not even once?"

"No," Wilson answered, shaking his head. Warren had to give it to the oncologist; he was an excellent actor.

"You see," the male detective cut in, "that's where we disagree, Dr. Wilson. You _did_ know. You knew because you both were living a double life as secret lovers together and you thought you were doing well at hiding it until House grew tired of living a lie. He was proud of your relationship and shared it with your neighbors but you didn't appreciate everybody knowing and it caused you two love birds to start sleeping in separate bedrooms, didn't it? You can deny it all you want, Doctor. The cat's out of the bag. Your neighbors know. They suspected it even before House began to come out about it. What Det. Levison and I want to know is _why_ you've been lying to us about it? Could it be because your jealousy over seeing House with another man finally pushed you over the brink and into doing something you now regret?"

Cuddy turned to glare at Warren with her most intimidating stare and he had to admit that it was impressive. "Enough! James, don't say another word to them. You don't have to tell them anything and I don't want you to outside of the presence of a lawyer!"

_Damn_! Warren thought to himself. There she went reminding him of his rights! Now they wouldn't learn anything more from him without legal counsel present. Their pressure tactics would be useless then.

"Is he under arrest?" Cuddy demanded, glaring from Levison to Warren and back. Her hands were on her hips in a defiant pose. If the circumstances were different Warren would have been impressed by her gusto. Oh, hell—he was impressed anyway.

"No," Levison replied, exhaling in exasperation. "Not at this time."

"Then I suggest you move on," the Dean of Medicine told them coldly. "He's not saying anything more to you without his lawyer present."

"We still have Dr. House to question," Warren told her firmly, "once he wakes up. We also plan on speaking with his diagnostics staff and others around the hospital before we leave…unless, of course, you plan on following us around and obstructing justice some more, Doctor."

Cuddy pressed her lips into a straight line and scowled in anger. She kept it in check, however, saying, "You will be notified when Dr. House awakes and is capable of answering questions. Of course I can't stop you from questioning House's staff—but if you cause another disruption in my hospital again I'll have you thrown out and the only way you'll get back in is with a warrant. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Warren told her, repressing an amused smile. He looked at Levison and she met his gaze. He nodded towards the door almost imperceptibly. She returned the nod with a similar one of her own.

"I'm certain we'll be talking again," the senior detective told the doctors mildly—well, mildly for him. He led the way out of Wilson's office with his partner close behind. The door was slammed behind them.

Levison looked at the door with a raised eyebrow and then addressed Warren. "That was interesting," she told him coolly. "I still say that we could have caught a lot more flies if we'd used honey."

"Shit beats honey any day," Warren told her, irritated by her comment. He had been questioning suspects before she had been born and he didn't appreciate having his decisions questioned, even by a fine detective like Levison. "Let's go next door and find House's underlings. It's possible they know something that Wilson hasn't disclosed to us."

They headed for DX room which shared a wall with Gregory House's office next door.

"I'm not convinced that Wilson is responsible for the strangulation," the female detective told him, shaking her head. "My bet's still on Davin. The doctor may be lying about the type of relationship he has had with House but I don't think he's lying about how the events went down last night."

"Time will tell," Warren answered tersely. They would just have to agree to disagree until the evidence proved which one of them was in fact correct. Warren's bet was on himself.--------

Wilson dropped into his desk chair as if every muscle in his body had lost all strength at the same time. He wasn't certain that it wasn't true. He felt completely stricken. It seemed inconceivable to him that anyone would think he would try to hurt House, much less kill him. He'd rather jump in front of a train first; purposefully harming a hair on the diagnostician's head would hurt him more than harming one of his own, and he sincerely meant that. After what had happened with Amber and the deep brain stimulation his best friend had gone through for him, in spite of the risks, the mere accusation made him feel completely sick. Yet here it was: not only were the police convinced that he and House were lovers, or former lovers, actually, but he was also a suspect in the attempted murder of the diagnostician.

The oncologist could in some tiny way understand their suspicions about his relationship with House; they did have an unusually close bond for two male friends to share, they did spend huge amounts of time together, they were single men over thirty living in the same apartment and that mess with Nora hadn't alleviated any suspicions around the condo either—oh yes, and there were House's mind games, too.

Of course, for House, they may have been less mind games and more wishful thinking than Wilson had originally thought. The possibility of Gregory House being in love with him for God only knows how long was definitely an eye-opener to the diagnostician's possessiveness and jealousy concerning him. The more the oncologist thought about it—and he'd thought about little else all the previous night long—the less the idea creeped him out. In fact, if he was completely honest with himself about it, after the initial shock he had realized that the idea didn't really surprise him much at all. Wilson knew that if he were bisexual, House would be the one he would pursue a relationship with—after all, it only made sense. They had been through thick and thin together and except for a few rough patches along the way had remained close. His friendship with House had lasted longer than all three of his marriages combined. Somehow, they just worked together, as impossible as it seemed. He did care a great deal about the diagnostician as well; it could be interpreted, if one stretched things a bit, that he _loved_ him.

However, Wilson wasn't bisexual; he _couldn't be_ because he would know for certain if he was, so he knew that he wasn't _in_ love with his best friend, even if the idea of House being in love with him was losing its discomfort. Somehow, if House did pull through, Wilson knew he would have to find out for certain, from the horse's mouth, what the older man's true feelings were for him and then somehow deal with the situation from there. How he would do so, he had no idea. One thing he did know for sure was that he didn't want to lose his best friend over this.

The mere _though_t of anyone suspecting him of attempted murder…!

The oncologist felt a hand touch his shoulder and it startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up into Cuddy's eyes, which looked down at him with concern and bewilderment, her pretty face contorted into a frown.

"James, did you hear me?" she asked.

Nodding, Wilson answered, "Yes, uh…of course I did! I'm sorry Lisa; I guess I just got lost in my thoughts. Did you say something?"

The Dean of Medicine was standing next to him. She squatted down next to him to look him closer in the eye—which was impressive with the tight pencil skirt she was wearing.

"Yes," she told him softly. "I asked you if you knew of a good criminal attorney you could call. It would be a very good idea for you to call one…those detectives aren't finished with you yet and I suspect you've already said too much to them in your effort to cooperate in finding the person who hurt House."

"No," Wilson told her distractedly. "I'll call the divorce lawyer who represented me with my last wife. He may have someone in mind that he could recommend. God, Lisa! I can't believe this is happening? I could never hurt House!"

"I know," she said quietly, but in spite of her words she was suddenly averting her eyes. He could tell that something was troubling her; she had a question she wanted to ask but was afraid to do so. He suspected he knew what that question was.

"What's wrong?" the oncologist cautiously asked his employer and friend. She shifted uncomfortably, still avoiding his brown eyes.

After a moment of hesitation Cuddy asked him quietly and carefully, "You know that it doesn't matter to me whatever your answer is but…_is_ there something going on between you and House other than friendship?"

Wilson sighed. Was there something that other people seemed to be able to see that he couldn't? Even _she_ wasn't convinced by his denials. He was tired of answering the same question over and over only to be disbelieved.

"Does it matter?" the oncologist asked her, defeated.

Cuddy's expression softened with compassion. "No," she told him. "I guess not." She rose to her full height again. "I know that you won't go home even if I order you to…but would you at least consider laying down here in your office to get a little rest? You've got to keep up your strength, especially now that--."

The sound of both of their beepers going off at the same time cut her off mid-sentence. They both anxiously checked the messages. Both read the same: House waking up.

She had her answer; Wilson was out the door of his office before she even looked up.


	6. Chapter 6

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **For those of you waiting to see House's beautiful blue's again you're in luck…but not everything is sunshine is roses for him again. Also, another canon character shows up.

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

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**Chapter Six**

When James Wilson arrived at House's IC room Dr. Eric Foreman was already there, studying the diagnostician's chart carefully. House's day nurse, Vanessa, stood next to her patient's bed, changing IV bags. Wilson had left instructions, as House's medical proxy, to call the neurologist should any change occur. The African-American doctor and the Chief of Diagnostic Medicine weren't friendly by any means friends but for three years Foreman had been one of House's fellows and continued to work with him as Cuddy's watchdog. He knew House better than any other neurologist in the hospital and Wilson hoped that that familiarity would be an advantage in his best friend's treatment. Besides, should it be necessary to reveal the details of House's attack to the medical personnel directly involved with his care, Wilson knew he had more influence in making certain that this neurologist kept his mouth shut than the others on staff. Wilson knew things about him (knowledge mostly gained through House) that he knew Foreman wouldn't like becoming public knowledge; it was their form of Mutually Assured Destruction. _You spread gossip about House, I'll spread what I have on you._

"I got the page," the oncologist told him, breathing a little heavier than normal thanks to the sprint he made from his office to ICU. "He's waking?"

Foreman nodded slowly, but his face was impassive. "Technically yes, but he's not out of the woods yet. On the Glasgow 1 he was at a three at five o'clock this morning. He was completely unaware of and unresponsive to any and all external stimuli. The fact that he was still in that state after nine hours reduced his chances of survival to fifty percent. Just because he appears to be improving does not guarantee that he will survive. I just want you to understand that."

Wilson nodded, a little annoyed at the pedagogical attitude Foreman was taking with him. He was a doctor, for god's sake; he did know a little about comas! He had to remind himself that the neurologist was simply talking to him as family rather than physician. After his experience with Tucker, Wilson had learned the hard way that he was wise to stay as 'family' when it came to the illness of a friend.

"What about now?" the oncologist inquired, rubbing his stubbly cheek with his hand. "Where is he on the GCS?"

At that moment Lisa Cuddy arrived, having run the entire way from Wilson's office on impossibly high heels to get there. "What's the word?" she panted lightly, looking at Foreman questioningly.

"I was just telling Wilson that House has improved from a GCS score of three to seven since five a.m. but as you know, he's still technically comatose and thus still in critical condition," the neurologist told them. He gestured for them to come closer to House's bedside as the nurse Vanessa left the small space to give them added room. "Early this morning there was absolutely no eye opening or clenching. Now we get a reaction to pain; his eyes will open for a few seconds and he'll look like he's trying to focus on something before closing again. He also displays withdrawal flexion in response to pain. However, there has been no verbal response to stimuli as of yet. Still, this improvement is encouraging." He added at the end when he saw the disappointment on Wilson's and Cuddy's faces.

"What time is his CT scan?" the oncologist asked him as he took a seat in the chair closest to his best friend's head. "I want to know how severe the brain injury is so I know what to tell his mother when I call her. I didn't want to frighten her with this until I had something to tell her other than, 'Hi, Blythe, Greg's in a coma—okay, bye'."

Cuddy nodded in agreement. "He's scheduled for eleven."

Foreman produced a pencil from out of the pocket of his lab coat and held it out to Wilson. "Care to do the honors?"

Wilson sighed and nodded, taking the unsharpened pencil. He gently lifted one of House's hands in his own, isolated the index finger and then pressed the wooden end of the writing implement hard against the nail bed of said finger. On cue two things occurred: House's eyes opened and the arm of the hand that was assaulted flexed at the elbow, resulting in moving the diagnostician's hand out of Wilson's. It truly didn't seem like much, but the doctors present appreciated the distinct improvement for what it was…a sign of hope.

The oncologist watched as House's beautiful blue eyes wandered about aimlessly. Then, just for a couple of seconds, it appeared that House's glassy, unfocused eyes found Wilson's, focused and remained on them before flitting away again. Those two seconds of connection impacted Wilson enormously and he couldn't help but grin with delight. His best friend was still in there somewhere, he knew, and he felt reassured that House would indeed be back with them soon.

The problem was, once House was back, how badly impaired would his neurological abilities be? They would have a better clue once the CT was performed and they could look at the films to see the extent of brain tissue death the diagnostician suffered due to stagnant anoxia. 2 The thought of severe damage made him sick; it would truly be a tragedy if House's incredible intellect was stolen from him by the act of a perverse individual hell bent on destroying the life of a man who managed to save so many others. The oncologist wanted to see the monster who did this suffer.

Wilson also hoped his friend gained consciousness in time to testify to the fact that he hadn't been attacked by his best friend—that is, if he was capable. Trapped inside of his mind was the answer to this puzzle and it could only be retrieved by House himself.

Wilson and Cuddy sat with House until eleven o'clock, when his nurse and Foreman returned to take him down for his CT scan. The three doctors were present during the scan, after which the diagnostician was returned to ICU. While the Intensive Care staffers got him situated again Wilson took the time to go to his office and call Sam. He stood her up not because he wanted to but because he was being brow-beaten by the police so technically it wasn't his fault, but Sam didn't know that so he felt he had to call her to explain. He was still angry with her behavior earlier and he knew he needed to give her a chance to explain herself and tell him the truth about how she felt about House.

He dialed her cell phone, unable to remember what she had said about her schedule today and where she would be. It rang four times before going to Voicemail. Either she was busy and couldn't take the call or she had checked the call display, saw that it was him, and angrily refused to answer. Wilson sighed as he waited for the beep.

"Hi, Sam! I'm…sorry for earlier," Wilson said, leaving his message for her. "I was on my way down to the cafeteria when I got sidetracked by the police. They wouldn't wait to question me…it's complicated. Listen, I want to talk this out with you…can we meet for dinner tonight? Call me."

He hung up landline and sighed tiredly. He was exhausted and his nerves were raw. All he wanted, the only thing he wanted, was for House to wake up completely and have absolutely no deficits whatsoever. He thought about his last conversation with the diagnostician before he was attacked. It was after the meal House had prepared for the three of them. It had been surprisingly pleasant; House had been on his best behavior and actually had seemed to be having a good time talking with Sam. Wilson had been worried that at some point House's territoriality would emerge and ruin the otherwise delightful evening, but it hadn't; the three of them had retired to the living room to watch some television and continue their conversation. The diagnostician had been witty, as usual, but it had lacked the acid and venom it usually held. Wilson had felt incredibly relieved and hopeful.

Sam had had an early meeting the next day and decided not to spend the night at the loft. The oncologist had taken her home and after incredible sex had returned to the loft quite late, expecting to find that House had retired for the evening already. He'd been mistaken; he'd found his best friend sitting on the sofa in the darkened living room. There was an open bottle of bourbon sitting on the coffee table in front of the diagnostician. House was drinking from a full glass, staring straight ahead. He hadn't so much as flinched when Wilson had said his name upon walking into the room. It had been a long time since the oncologist had seen a vignette of his friend like that; not since before the older man had had his breakdown and had been admitted to Mayfield. It had vaguely bothered him at the time.

"You're still up," Wilson had said, taking a seat next to House on the sofa. "I half-expected you to be in bed already."

"Not likely," had been House's deep, quiet response. He'd had a slight slur to his speech.

The oncologist had waited for him to say more but when he hadn't then Wilson spoke again, more to break the uneasy silence than to transmit any pertinent thought or information.

"Thank you, House."

"For what?" the older man had asked, still not looking at him. He took two swallows from his glass, emptying it. He had poured himself another full glass.

"For dinner," the younger man had answered. "For trying to get to know Sam; for not trying to sabotage the evening and Sam's and my relationship. I was suspicious at first but…you really surprised me tonight."

"It's your life, Wilson," House had said simply, and had chugged down all of the bourbon in the glass all at once. Wilson wasn't stupid; he'd known that something was very wrong. If House had been simply ranting or sarcastic or verbally abusive, he wouldn't have been as concerned; it had been the quietness of that drinking binge, the lack of eye contact and the civility of their 'conversation' that had worried the younger man. He'd been unable to remember a conversation quite like that before.

"Yes, it is," Wilson had agreed softly with a nod. "But you're an important part of it. Your…understanding about this is great."

"No," had been the stilted answer.

Frowning, the oncologist had asked, "No? No what, House?"

There had been a pause before the older man had answered. "I don't understand. I'll never understand."

"Understand what?"

"This," had been the reply. House had poured himself another glass with considerably less coordination than before; he missed the glass briefly, some of the alcohol hitting the table. Wilson had felt the urge to jump up, run to the kitchen for a cloth and rush back to wipe it up. He'd forced himself to resist that urge for fear that doing so would have promptly ended the conversation just when his best friend appeared to have been opening up.

Wilson had sighed silently. "Can you be a little more specific?"

"Why you insist on doing this to yourself again?" the diagnostician had answered softly. He'd finally turned his head to look at him. Ambient light from the streetlights shining in the windows had caught the irises of his eyes, making them glow a luminescent blue, an effect that had caused Wilson's breath catch in his throat at the haunting beauty of it.

Wilson remembered feeling disappointed that his best friend had been unable, ultimately, to leave it alone. "What exactly is it that I'm doing?" he'd asked, knowing full well what House had been referring to. "Trying to build a life for myself that involves more than you as its center? Trying to find a little bit of happiness before I waste my entire life away?"

"Is that what you feel you're doing?" the diagnostician had returned; there had been the unmistakable edge of hurt in his voice. "Is our friendship a waste of your time?"

Suddenly the oncologist had realized that the older man had been feeling insecure about where he stood in Wilson's perspective of his life. He 'd been unable to understand why House was convinced that he was worthless whenever he had to share the spotlight of the younger man's attention with someone or something else. Wilson had never meant to communicate anything of the sort.

"No," the oncologist had assured him, swallowing back feelings of frustration and resentment. He had tried to remind himself that the diagnostician was drunk and not exactly himself at that moment. "It's not. Our friendship is very important to me. You know that."

House looked away from him and was silent for a long minute.

"No," the older man had whispered. "I don't."

Wilson had shaken his head in dismay and was silent himself for a few moments. "What is it exactly you think I'm doing to myself?" he'd asked again, trying his best to avoid an argument with his sullen friend.

He had heard House sigh very softly. The older man had swallowed more bourbon, as if steeling himself for something very unpleasant.

"Running away," had been the gravelly answer.

That answer had confused the oncologist and he'd quickly inquired, "What am I supposedly running away from?"

House hadn't answered, but had dropped his head to his chest, staring down at his own lap. His lack of answer and dejected body language had troubled Wilson, and he'd realized that that they had been on two different pages. House had been talking about something much deeper than petty jealousy over having to share the oncologist's time again, which was what Wilson had been thinking their conversation had been about. The problem was, he hadn't a clue what that 'something deeper' had been; as hard as he'd tried, Wilson had never been able to completely fathom what went on his brilliant friend's mind.

"House?" the younger man had said, wondering if the older man had heard him.

"From yourself," had been the delayed response, spoken so softly that Wilson had had difficulty hearing him in the silent room. "And as a result, from me."

It had occurred to Wilson, then, that House had been feeling threatened by Sam, just as he had with Amber—but more than that, had been reliving the oncologist's leaving after her death. It was a reoccurring theme and Wilson had wondered if his friend would ever completely overcome the trauma it had caused him and forgive the younger man. That part he had begun to understand—but he'd been unable to understand what his friend had meant by saying that he was running from himself. That was impossible for anyone to do, wasn't it?

"I don't understand," he had asked the diagnostician and remembered feeling anxious. "But I'm not running away from you again. I'm not going _anywhere_. I thought you believed me when I told you that before."

"You can't help it," House told him. "You have to, if you're going to be the guy in the Rockwell painting, the guy everybody tells you that you should be. Your life with me in it is the antithesis of that traditional ideal. Your ex-wives, Cancer Girl, Amber, and now Sam again…they all fit it. You're so obsessed with being what others say is normal, Wilson…that's why women attract you like a moth to a flame and you lose yourself in them. I am that part of the life you reject as not being good enough. You're running away from who you really are, and that means you're running away from me. As long as I'm around, you can't forget about _here_, and convince yourself that you belong _there_."

Wilson remembered being bewildered, not knowing what to say to what the older man had said, but later began to understand. House had set the half-empty glass on the table and had risen unsteadily to his feet, cane in hand; he'd staggered a little as he had headed for his bedroom.

He'd turned back briefly before leaving the room to say, "As long as this isn't good enough for you, I never will be." He'd limped out after that, leaving the oncologist to remain sitting in the living room, alone in the dark, for a long time after. He'd sat there, thinking through what his friend had observed about him.

House had been right about one thing…Wilson was dissatisfied with the direction his life had taken from the ideals and goals he'd set out for himself in college. He had dreamt of completing medical school and residency, marrying a beautiful woman who would love him and his family, a woman his mother would actually approve of and get along with at family gatherings. She had never liked any of the girls he had dated up to that point. Wilson had wanted the big house and yard, two cars, children and pet—at least, he thought he had. When he met Samantha—Sam—she seemed to fit the ideal perfectly. She was beautiful, intelligent, ambitious but open to the idea of a family once their careers had been established. His family had loved her, even his mother (although not being Jewish had been a sore spot but his mother had been willing to overlook it so long as Sam would agree to a traditional Jewish wedding. Religion had never meant all that much to either of them so Sam had had no problem with it).

His life had seemed perfect when they were newlyweds (didn't life always look perfect during the honeymoon stage of a relationship?). He had everything he had ever wanted…or so he had thought. So why hadn't he been happy? Truthfully he hadn't been, not really. He'd always felt like something was missing but he could never figure out what that was. Guilt had racked him every time he found himself dissatisfied and he'd quickly chastise himself for being ungrateful for all of the good things he'd had going for him. Sam had been attentive, caring and delightful, and even so he'd found himself lying with her in his arms in the middle of the night, watching her sleep and thinking that he wasn't certain he was in love with her after all. As a couple of months had passed small things had begun to come up that had begun to drive the both of them to distraction with the other. They had been petty things—he'd forget to call home when he was going to be late at the hospital, she'd leave her things lying all around the apartment with no consideration to how he felt about it, he'd stay up reading instead of going to bed at the same time as she did at night, she'd take something of his and forget to return it, leaving him to have to hunt for it the next time he needed it—but over time they added up and the distancing, at least on his part, had begun.

His marriage with Sam had begun to fall apart about six months into it. She'd received acceptance into an internship program that she had been dreaming of since entering medicine but it meant she'd had to quit the job she had been holding at the time to begin something that didn't pay anything at all. He had been earning a fair salary but it hadn't been plush for them with her working. Without a paycheck arriving for her, Wilson had been forced to pick up a second job to make ends meet; it was a misconception that all doctors were rich; the real money didn't come until after residency and Fellowshipping and then private practice or a lucrative position in an upscale hospital.

Working two jobs had only put further strain on their troubled relationship. Wilson had become bitter and exhausted and Sam had been frustrated with Wilson 'never being home' and spending all of his time working. Even when they had managed to be at home at the same time their lovemaking had become almost non-existent. Their excuse had been exhaustion; it had been a poor excuse.

At his primary position Wilson had entered a Fellowship under one of his personal heroes, a world-renowned oncologist and researcher. It had been a plumb position indeed and one he'd taken very seriously. He'd willingly put in overtime when he wasn't working at his second job just to be around his mentor and become a great oncologist vicariously merely by being in his presence. He knew he had quickly become the senior doctor's favorite pupil, but he hadn't expected the attraction that had developed between them. Its onset was gradual—so gradual that neither man had expected it until it was there, the elephant in the room that had to be dealt with because it could no longer be denied. Wilson had kept his forbidden feelings to himself, too ashamed to even formally think through them much less allow anyone else to know. He'd rationalized that it simply had been due to the fact that he hadn't had sex with Sam in over a month, he was tired and working very closely with the other man under stressful conditions. The problem was, the more he'd denied the arousal he felt every time he saw the man or was close enough to smell him or focused on his deep bass voice, the greater his arousal had become.

When his mentor made the first move Wilson had resisted but later that evening had gone home and had hidden himself away in his study where Sam would find him jacking off at the thought of what his mentor had proposed (of course, he had never told her that who he had been fantasizing about. Gradually it had become nearly a daily habit. A few weeks later the senior doctor had approached Wilson again when they were working late in his mentor's office, reviewing cases. He'd risen from his desk, walked around Wilson until he was behind his seated Fellow and then had placed his hands on Wilson's shoulders and had begun massaging them. The younger doctor's body had responded immediately and before he'd stopped to think again exactly what it was that had been happening he found himself having sex with another man. The most horrible part had been that afterwards he'd had no regrets. The sex had been incredible. Yet, he'd known that he could never allow it to happen again, ever. He hadn't been gay, had had no intentions of ever becoming gay and had wanted to bury this aberration so deeply that no one would ever find out that it had happened.

That same night Wilson had begun an affair with a nurse who'd shown interest in him but who the oncologist had never looked twice at until then. Even though he'd been fully aware that what he'd been doing would destroy his marriage if Sam ever found out, he'd continued it because he'd needed it to reassure himself that what had happened with his mentor had indeed been an aberration and that he was, indeed, sexually attracted to and desired by the opposite sex.

Somehow Sam had found out about the nurse but hadn't confronted him to his face about it and to his shame Wilson hadn't really cared if she knew or didn't and hadn't volunteered the information. As far as he had been concerned he'd still loved Sam and had once again justified away his guilt by believing that his affair actually had been good for his marriage because it had prevented him from filing for divorce.

Shortly after that, however, he'd been sent to a medical convention in New Orleans. On the first day of the convention, at breakfast, Wilson had been served divorce papers from Sam's lawyers, citing adultery as the reason. It had hit him from out of the blue and had stunned him beyond all belief. He'd been certain that he'd been discreet and that there had been no way she could have known, but obviously he'd been wrong. Panic-stricken he'd called Sam, hoping to change her mind; he hadn't wanted his marriage to end, hadn't wanted to lose her, but she'd been unreachable. The rest of the day had been a blur for him; he'd attended the sessions, mingled with other doctors from a full spectrum of specializations and had skillfully pretended that nothing was wrong and his whole world wasn't falling apart.

That evening he'd had enough of the convention and enough of the pretense. Instead of the evening presentation he'd found himself in his hotel's bar, alone, trying to drown his sorrows. He'd been mourning the end of his perfect life with his perfect wife and all of the dreams and goals he had set for himself. He'd mourned his parent's approval, fearing the expression his mother would wear when he told her that he was getting divorced and why. Wilson had been sure that he'd had life by the balls and that nothing could happen to change that. Discovering that it all had been an illusion had hit him hard like a sucker punch. He'd been lying on the mat and the referee had been counting him out.

He'd noticed the tall, slender man sitting at the other end of the bar when he'd first entered but hadn't really paid much attention to the fact that said man had been shamelessly watching him all evening with startling blue eyes that had been dissecting him like a razor sharp scalpel. The only thing he'd been able to do was suffer through some asshole's obsession with one particular song, which the sot had played on the jukebox over and over and over again. By that time he'd become quite drunk and in a fit of frustration had asked the idiot to play something else for a change but he had been ignored. A fury he had never thought he was capable of feeling had come over him then and he'd gotten to his feet, picked up a liquor bottle and chucked it at the idiot's head. However, Wilson had never been very athletic, except for tennis and golf, and he'd been very drunk, so the bottle had missed its intended mark by several feet and slammed instead into a the antique mirror hung behind the bar, smashing it to pieces. That somehow had initiated a bar fight of epic proportions which ended when the police had arrived and had drug everyone in the bar to jail. Everyone, that is, but the tall, slender man who had been watching the oncologist all night. He had managed to slip out of the bar before the arrests had begun to be made.

It had been a good thing, too, because that man, a much younger Gregory House, had found him interesting enough to bother with and had bailed him out. That had been the birth of their friendship almost twenty years ago. From that point on Wilson had never been able to get back his dream of the wife and family and normalcy. House had become almost an obsession to him and they seemed to always be together. Even when Wilson had remarried two more times House had always been--and had demanded to be—the center of the oncologist's attention. In fact, a big factor in the breakdown of his second and third marriages had been due to his friendship with House. It had been convenient over the years to lay the blame of it on House's possessiveness and near obsession with him but deep down he knew that the fault had been his and _his_ near obsession with the diagnostician.

About five years into their friendship, once House had been hired at Princeton-Plainsboro where Wilson had been made head of oncology Wilson had begun to feel the same kind of stirrings when around House as he'd experienced years before with his mentor. He'd tried for months to deny his urges, repress them, and tell himself that this wasn't really who and what he was nor was it who or what he intended on being. Once again things had become more complicated when he'd come to suspect that House had the same yearnings for him. While the idea of it hadn't seemed to bother his best friend, who had seemed to be able to just shrug it off, it had terrified the oncologist and so he'd begun to avoid House, much to the displeasure of the older man.

House had already met and moved in with Stacy by then, and by all appearances their relationship had appeared good and House had been the most content that Wilson had ever seen him, before and thereafter. In general Stacy had been good for House and there had been no doubt in Wilson's mind that House had been in love with her. The oncologist hadn't known that there had been cracks forming in the diagnostician's relationship until after the infarction and Stacy's departure. House's anger and bitterness over what he saw as his girlfriend's betrayal of him (by conspiring with Cuddy to go against House's express wishes while he was in a drug-induced coma) and the deep depression he had fallen into upon losing most of his right thigh and Stacy's lack of regret for what she had done had led to the destruction of their relationship and Stacy had walked away from him when House was at his most vulnerable. That had left it up to Wilson to step in and help his friend get through his 'valley of the shadow of death' as it were and endure the long and painful process of recovery.

It had been during that crazy and boundary-bending time that he and House had gone too far and stepped over the line. It had been one time only and both of them had been very, very drunk. Wilson had started living part-time at the diagnostician's apartment because of the intense one-on-one care House had required to accomplish the simplest of tasks which most people take for granted; cooking, walking, bathing, even going to the bathroom—Wilson had helped him with all of it until House had reclaimed, gradually, his own independence again. For Wilson the sex had been unbelievable at the time, perhaps the best he'd experienced; the problem began when he'd awakened the next morning in bed with his best friend draped over him, both of them naked. Panic had set in then, as well as deep shame, at least on Wilson's part. House had seemed less disturbed by the whole thing. It had threatened to destroy their friendship and neither man had wanted that so it had be agreed that neither he nor House would ever, ever speak of it again and it most certainly would never be allowed to happen again. It never had, no matter how drunk they may have got, no matter the circumstances.

Wilson had been convinced that for House it also had been a huge mistake that he'd wanted to put behind him, an aberration that had occurred because of unusual and extreme circumstances. He had been convinced of his best friend's heterosexuality, and that the flirtation between the two of them had simply been a joke for both.

Apparently, it was possible that, at least for one of them, it hadn't been. No matter how hard Wilson had tried to keep his eyes on his original goals, his life was heading down a different. Amber had been his hope to get back on track, and then she had died; House had nearly died as well in a Hail Mary attempt to find a cure for her to please his best friend. Now Wilson had another chance, one that he had never thought he would get, to recapture at least part of his dream. Sam was it. He knew that he wouldn't get another chance if this attempt at reconciliation didn't work. This was his last opportunity to make up for the idiotic mistakes and selfish choices he had made in his relationship with her the first time around and, in effect, erase all of the mistakes and failures he'd made since. He could finally close the loop. How could he pass that up? How could he throw away his second chance?

How could he not try to keep the best parts of his friendship with House while keeping his dream in sight? Why couldn't he have both?

Then House brought home a male lover that tried to murder him and Wilson's life was turned upside-down again; his dream was once again in jeopardy, but so was the life of one of the most important people in the world to him. Whether it was intentional or not, once again House was threatening to destroy the oncologist's normal life. Yet, Wilson didn't want to completely end his association with the diagnostician; he simply wanted to push back a little bit, establish a little space and have a chance to have _everything_ he's always wanted, including his _friend_. He didn't see it as him running away from himself or the 'truth', whatever that was, or House for that matter; he saw it as him running _towards_ the best of both worlds. Was that so wrong?

Why did he feel like he was making a huge mistake when this was probably the sanest decision and course of action that he had made in nearly two decades?

Why did he feel…guilty?

_Because you're exhausted, James, _the oncologist told himself. _Nothing makes sense when you're too tired to even think._

Wilson looked longingly towards his sofa. Perhaps Cuddy and Sam were right. Perhaps he _should_ lie down for a while and take a nap. ICU would page him should House's status change.

The oncologist went to the filing cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer; he retrieved the blanket and travel pillow he kept there. He threw the pillow against the armrest and then stretched out on the sofa, covering himself with the blanket. His head hit the pillow, and he was almost immediately asleep.

1 The Glasgow Coma Scale, which measures the severity of a coma by using a numeric score to determine the depth of coma based on a patient's ability to open his eyes and make verbal or motor responses to stimuli. It can be used to measure the progress a coma patient is making over time.

2 Stagnant anoxia: also called hypoxicischemic injury (HII), where a condition occurs which blocks sufficient oxygen-rich blood from reaching the brain. Eg., strangulation blocks the trachea, preventing oxygen intake during breathing. Lack of oxygen being absorbed into and carried by the blood from the lungs to the brain then causes cellular death (brain damage)..


	7. Chapter 7

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **Last chapter was lacking in action but I thought it was necessary to take a look into Wilson's thinking and past (at least as I have interpreted it from Canon and added a little bit that has been speculated on but never actually addressed on the show. I realize that there will be many of you who object to what I've portrayed and that is your right. Please try to keep in mind that I can only write from my interpretation and opinion. I know that episode 6:21 "Baggage" which was shown on Monday has caused a lot of controversy and division between House-lovers and Wilson-lovers. I'm neither—I love them **both**. There is no intended bashing of _any_ character here. I appreciate comments but no flaming.

In this chapter we are back to more of House. We also see more Canon characters appear. Action starts again in Chapter eight.

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------****Chapter Seven**

Det. Anne Levison and Det. Toby Warren knocked on the glass door of the Differential room just off of Dr. House's office before stepping inside. Seated at a long conference table, which was strewn with patient files, professional journals and miscellaneous other junk were two young doctors. One of them looked to be in his early thirties with shortly cropped blond hair, wearing a lab coat over a baby blue dress shirt and navy tie and dark trousers. Levison couldn't help but notice that he was extraordinarily attractive; she was human, after all. He held a folded newspaper in one hand and a pen in the other, obviously working on a crossword puzzle. The other Fellow was a woman, younger than her colleague, with long brown hair which was pulled back from a beautiful, perfectly symmetrical face. She was svelte and stood tall in her seat as she read from the screen of a laptop.

Both had looked up curiously at the knock and the odd couple walking into the room.

"Hi," Levison spoke up pleasantly. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but my name is Detective Levison and this is my partner Det. Warren with the Mercer County Sherriff's Department. We're here investigating the attempted murder of Dr. Gregory House. Would you happen to be his Fellows?"

At the words 'Attempted Murder' Chase dropped his pen and puzzle onto the table and both doctors regarded her with expressions of surprise. Apparently neither of them had heard the news yet. That was actually a good thing. If they hadn't been previously informed then nobody had got to them yet to affect their stories.

"Someone tried to kill House?" the female exclaimed, amazed. "When? How?"

"Yes," the male doctor answered the detective's question. He had what Levison believed was an Australian accent. "We are. I'm Dr. Chase and this is Dr. Hadley. We had no idea anything had happened to him until you just mentioned it so you've caught us a little off guard. Is he alright?"

"He's alive but comatose in this hospital," Warren answered. "We had assumed that since you are his employees you would have been notified."

Both doctors shook their heads at that.

"I'm surprised we weren't," Hadley told them, frowning slightly and exchanging a look with Chase.

"Are you two his only Fellows?" Levison asked.

"No," Chase answered. "There's another—Dr. Taub—but he hasn't arrived yet. Also, there is another doctor that works as an…advisor of sorts, Dr. Foreman. He's in the hospital somewhere because I saw his car in the parking lot but he hasn't shown up here yet. Listen…can you fill us in on what happened? Has Dr. Cuddy or Dr. Wilson been notified?"

"Yes, they know," Levison told him with a nod. "Dr. Wilson was the one who made the nine-one-one call last night and rode in the ambulance with Dr. House to the hospital. Listen, we'll be glad to fill you in on what we may know about the situation but we need to ask you general questions concerning Doctors House and Wilson which will aid us in our investigation. To save time we'd like to interview you at the same time so Detective Warren would speak with Dr. Hadley and I would speak with you, Dr. Chase. Would that be possible to do right now?"

Again the doctors exchanged looks and then Hadley shrugged, "Sure, I guess."

"Fine," Chase answered decisively with a nod, but there was a hint of suspicion in his eyes. "Where do you want us?"

Levison answered, "Dr. Chase, why don't you and I go to the cafeteria and talk? That way, Det. Warren and Dr. Hadley can remain here."

"Sure," Chase replied, rising from the table and leading the way out of the room with Levison right behind him. She began the questioning as they walked side by side.

Levison pulled out her digital recorder and showed it to Chase. "I hope you don't mind," she told him, "but it's a lot easier for me than trying to write everything down."

Chase looked at the devise warily but just shrugged in answer. Levison spoke into the recorder, stating the time and date, the case number, the interviewer and the interviewed and where the interview took place.

"You're not under arrest, Doctor," Levison told him, "and you're not legally bound to answer my questions at this point but I hope you will because the background information you give me can be helpful in finding the individual who attacked Dr. House. I do appreciate your willingness to talk."

"So are you going to tell me what happened now?" the Australian asked her bluntly.

With a small smile the female detective nodded in the affirmative. "Last night Dr House was found unconscious in his bedroom, the victim of strangulation. There is little doubt that the intent was to kill him but fortunately Dr. Wilson found him before he expired. Paramedics and a single squad car reported to the scene and found Dr. Wilson performing rescue breathing for Dr. House because he had ceased breathing on his own. At this point we don't know exactly how long your boss went without oxygen before Dr. Wilson found him but it's estimated that he was breathing for him for approximately five minutes before the paramedics arrived."

Wincing at what he heard Chase shook his head in dismay. "Shit," he muttered. "At least five minutes…that's…that's significant."

"Yes," Levison agreed grimly. "We're aware that after four minutes without oxygen the damage suffered by the brain can be quite serious. That's why we're determined to find out who did this and capture him."

"Him?" Chase asked in surprise. "But I thought you said he was found in his bedroom? I assumed that his attacker would have been…female."

They stopped at the elevator and waited for the car to arrive.

"We're certain that his attacker was male," Levison assured him, realizing that House had managed to keep his sexual behaviors secret from his Fellows. She waited until they were alone in the elevator car heading down to the lobby before she added. "This is, as I 'm certain that you can appreciate, sensitive information I'm about to divulge to you so your discretion is appreciated."

Saying nothing, the doctor nodded in understanding. He looked quite nervous.

Sighing silently, Levison explained, "Dr. House was found nude on his bed unconscious with the ligature item still wrapped around his neck. There was considerable evidence of homosexual activity involved; it's possible that Dr. House's partner was someone he met earlier the same evening. However, whether or not that individual performed the strangulation is still up for debate."

The doctor's jaw dropped in shock, but he quickly recovered, albeit not completely. He looked like he had just been punched in the face.

"I," Chase said softly, shaken. "I had no idea that House is gay."

"It's my opinion that he is bisexual, actually," Levison told him, shrugging. The elevator doors opened and they stepped off, heading in the direction of the cafeteria. "Regardless, I'm hoping that something you may know about Dr House and Dr. Wilson will help us know in which direction to focus our investigation."

At the cafeteria Levison bought two coffees and they took a seat at a table in a quieter corner of the dining area to continue their discussion.

"I'm not certain I can help you," Chase told her honestly, holding his take-out cup full of coffee in both hands. "As you can tell, I was completely unaware of the attack or of House's…private activities, for that matter."

"I'm not expecting you to know anything about the actual crime," the detective told him, removing the lid off of her cup. She blew over the surface of her drink briefly. "Really I'm just looking for some insight into who Dr. House and Dr. Wilson are as people and as doctors and friends. It will give me an idea of what kind of elements and lifestyle behaviors may have led to the meeting of the attacker."

Again the attractive doctor looked at her suspiciously. He obviously didn't trust too many people and especially not her. That came with the territory she supposed; nobody wanted to incriminate themselves or friends intentionally or unintentionally. Somehow she had to make him understand that all she wanted was to learn the truth. Unlike her partner, who had final say over how they went about questioning people as a team, she believed in being honest and forthright, or, at least, as much as she could without jeopardizing the investigation or a life. She hated playing games like Good Cop/Bad Cop or high intensity interrogation techniques, especially with people she highly doubted had anything to do with the crime itself. Levison hated how they had treated James Wilson earlier that morning. In her opinion it had been unnecessary to badger him the way they had, but it was what Warren wanted so she was pretty much bound to follow his lead.

"First of all, Doctor," she began, "How long have you worked for Dr. House?"

"Approximately seven and a half years, on and off," Chase answered simply.

"On and off?"

A rueful smile crossed the doctor's mouth. "He fired me about half way through the Fellowship, then hired me again this past fall."

"Why did he fire you?" Levison asked, genuinely curious. "What did you do?"

"I 'd rather not get into that," Chase told her, "It doesn't really matter when it comes to House. His way of thinking and seeing the world is radically different from about ninety-nine percent of other people in world. It's what makes him the best at what he does but it also makes his behavior appear unfathomable to the normal mind as well."

"Kind of like the stereotypical Mad Scientist?" she asked with a smile.

Chase nodded and smiled. "Kind of. He's definitely a genius and with genius often comes eccentricities."

Levison took a sip of her steaming brew. "Mmm. So what kind of eccentricities are we talking about here?"

Shrugging the Fellow met her eyes and she had to look away, annoyed with herself for reacting like a crushing school girl. _Get a grip, Annie_! She told herself sternly. _So what if he's model-gorgeous! You've got a job to do!_

If he had noticed her reaction he didn't show it. "Oh, I don't know…take the way he dresses for example. I think the number of times I have seen him combed, pressed and clean-shaven I can count on one hand. It's just him. Pop-culture t-shirts and rumpled jeans, although for the past few months he's worn a dress shirt, wrinkled of course, and a blazer. Oh, and expensive Nikes—always Nikes. I overheard someone once say that he owns at least a dozen pairs of them, all the same style. His hair is usually uncombed and his three-day's growth of beard is practically trademarked. It's not that he can't clean up, he just doesn't bother. It's not important to him. Now his best friend is the absolute opposite as far as that goes…actually, as much as pretty much everything goes."

"That would be Dr. Wilson?" Levison clarified for the benefit of the recording she was making.

"Yeah," he confirmed.

"What other eccentricities?" she asked, tracing the rim of her coffee cup with a finger.

"He spends most of his time watching soap operas, listening to music and playing with his PSP," the doctor related. "He leaves the grunt work and the actual contact and communication with the patient to us—the other Fellows and I. He rarely even goes near a patient unless there is something about the patient outside of the medical puzzle that he finds interesting. It's actually a good thing he doesn't spend a lot of time with his patients. His bedside manner is…well,..to say that he's rude, blunt and openly confrontational is an understatement."

"I see," Levison said, pausing briefly to process what she'd heard. "So he's not much of a people person? More like the Peter Pan-psychotic loner type?"

"Yeah," Chase agreed chuckling. He obviously liked her description. He sobered, however, "He hasn't had it easy since his infarction. Word is his girlfriend dumped him because of it, or rather, his reaction to it. He's got chronic pain that sometimes is nearly debilitating for him. Actually, for as long as I've known him, up to about a year ago, he was addicted to Vicodin and using both it and alcohol pretty heavily. But he went through detox and rehabilitation and he's been doing…better. That is, until recently. I've noticed a change in him over the past few weeks. He's become even more disheveled than normal, he seems to be favoring his bad leg more and…." The doctor allowed his voice to drift off and shook his head, looking down at his untouched coffee.

Levison knew reticence and the desire to keep certain things private when she saw it. It was that information—the things people didn't want too many people to know, especially professional snoops like her—that she wanted the most.

"I know that you don't want to say anything that will cast a negative or incriminating light on anyone, Dr. Chase," the detective told him quietly, "but Dr. House isn't the one on trial here. We're trying to apprehend the person who hurt him so that your boss can see justice done in his case. Please tell me what you were going to say before you stopped."

Chase continued to look down silently for a few moments before looking back up at her. "This can't go any further than the two of us, because if certain people caught wind of this he could find himself without a job."

"I have to share it with Det. Warren and our superiors," Levison told him, "but I guarantee you it won't go beyond them. What is it?"

Chase looked furtively around them and then leaned closer and said softly, "Three times this week he's come to work smelling fairly strongly of alcohol and one time I caught him drunk, in his office, before quitting time. I don't think he's been actively treating patients while under the influence but…it does concern me a little. I haven't said anything to him because, well, it's really not my place to and I don't want to get fired again. Also, he's been pretty decent to me lately and I don't want to cause him trouble."

Nodding, Levison took another drink of her coffee. She could tell that for all of his practiced nonchalance, Dr. Chase possessed a certain loyalty for his boss. As far as for House's drinking, it fit with what the bartender, David, had told her about him appearing to be at The Spectra Lounge more to drink than for anything else. She wondered if his drinking had anything to do with his best friend (and lover?).

"What about Dr. Wilson?" the detective asked him, brushing a stray strand of hair off of her face. "What is Dr. House's relationship with him like?"

**hwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhwhw**

"Well, they're best friends," Dr. Remy Hadley said in answer to Det. Warren's question. She sat relaxed in his chair at the conference table across from the grizzled detective.

Warren nodded, scribbling notes down on a small note pad. The doctor was slightly stand-offish, like she didn't appreciate having her time taken up by a bunch of questions, particularly when they concerned her boss. She possessed a certain amount of protectiveness for her superior. On occasion her body language gave Warren the distinct impression that she was either hiding something or outright lying.

"Is that all they are?" the detective asked, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

One of her eyebrows quirked at his question. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Warren answered, "Is there anything more to their relationship than their friendship?" He absently bit his cheek as he waited for her answer.

Hadley scowled slightly and made him wait a few moments before she answered, her gaze never wavering from his. "Are you asking me if they are lovers?"

"Are they?"

"Now why would you ask me that?" she answered him with another question. "You wouldn't…unless it is pertinent to House's attack. There's more to it than House was found in the loft by Wilson with a ligature around his neck, isn't there?"

"I'm not at a liberty to say," Warren told her, frowning. His eyes were carefully watching her face and body for tells.

"Then neither am I," Hadley told him with a smirk, crossing her arms across her chest defiantly.

"Why are you avoiding my question, Dr. Hadley?" the detective asked her, resisting the urge to smile. She thought she had the upper hand in the situation, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. "I get very suspicious when people evade my questions. It leads me to think that there is something sinister going on that they are trying to hide. Then I have to ask myself 'Why are they hiding something?' What are you hiding, Doctor? Unless you know something about what really happened to Dr. House that you don't want the police to know. That wouldn't be the case now, would it?"

Hadley's smirk never wavered but the was a slight muscle twitch in the corner of her left eyes and a caught breath that betrayed to Warren that she wasn't as confident as she was trying to come across as being.

"I'll tell you what," she said to him slyly, "I'll consider answering your question if you tell me what really went down with House last night. Otherwise, I have nothing more to say."

A small, cold smile crossed Warren's lips. She wanted to play games, huh? Okay, games it was, then.

"Alright," he said coolly. "One of our working theories is that Dr. House was attacked by a man he picked up at a gay nightclub and took home with him. During anal intercourse they decided to play 'You strangle me and I'll strangle you' but the good doctor's playmate decided he wasn't satisfied with going halfway and tried to murder him. I guess that's what you get when you agree to bottom."

The smirk on the female doctor's face had faded away. Now there was a look of mild surprise and a puzzled frown around her carefully tweezed brows.

"You're lying," she told him bluntly, but she didn't appear very confident.

"Unlike you, Doctor," Warren responded, "I have no reason to want to lie."

Hadley looked away from him then, and appeared to be thinking about what she had just been told. After a few seconds had passed, a small wry smile crossed her lips and she looked back him.

"I didn't know for certain that House was bi," she told the detective, "but I did suspect it. Boy is he going to be pissed when he finds out that Chase and I know as much as we do about his private business. Serves him right for all of the bi jokes he's made at my expense."

Warren fought not to show his surprise. Was everyone who worked at this hospital bisexual? Was it a job requirement or something?

"You said he picked this guy up at a nightclub?" Hadley asked. "Would that be The Spectra Lounge? It's the only one around Princeton; the next one isn't until Trenton."

"Yes," was the answer. "Another working theory we have concerns Dr. Wilson."

Frowning in bewilderment Hadley shook her head at first, then stopped, her eyes widening. "That's why you were asking me if House and Wilson are lovers! You think Wilson would do something like that to House? That's preposterous! There is absolutely no way. That man cares a great deal about House; he would never do anything to hurt him! Besides, I highly doubt that there is anything sexual in their relationship. Wilson…well, he's too straight and narrow, too concerned about his image to engage in anything like that. He's dating his ex-wife right now…probably a stupid thing to do, but…no. Wilson is too much in denial to be sleeping with House. I don't believe it!"

Warren sat forward in his seat. That was an interesting answer. "What do you mean by he's 'too much in denial'?"

The look on Hadley's face told Warren that she had just realized that she may have said something she shouldn't have and was going to stop answering his questions.

"Nothing," she answered, trying to sound nonchalant but she didn't. "I was just making my point that House and Wilson are not lovers.

"I see," Warren said to her and sighed. "What would you say, Dr. Hadley, if I told you that we've had neighbors of theirs tell us that they are certain that they are with some pretty compelling reasons to believe them?"

"What reasons?"

"I'll tell you one of the reasons, but first you have to be honest with me and come clean on what you really meant when you said that Dr. Wilson is in denial." Warren smirked confidently, waiting to see what the young doctor would do. She was cagy, that one.

Looking at him suspiciously Hadley looked like she was going to refuse but at the last moment changed her mind.

"Wilson…there is a dichotomy of opinions on his sexual orientation among members of the hospital staff," The doctor mused out loud. "Wilson has a reputation of being very popular with women and the nursing staff in particular. I've heard rumors that he's slept with three quarters of the nurses who work in oncology alone. I've heard House call him 'the panty-peeler' and mock him for falling for every needy damsel in distress that crosses his path. However, I personally haven't seen that side of Wilson, at least around the hospital; in fact, until recently, he went over a year before even venturing back into the world of dating; his girlfriend had died tragically and very suddenly and I think it took him a long time to get over that. It doesn't help his social life, either, to have House as a friend. He's very possessive of things and people, especially Wilson. Part of the reason I suspected that House was bisexual was because of his…well, his obsession with his best friend.

"There's another faction that believe that Wilson is actually gay and that he and House are too close for there to be nothing going on between them. They see his OCD tendencies as prissy or effeminate, and once again it doesn't help that House is always making fun of him being a manipulative bitch. Also, the two of them have this banter thing back and forth and often they flirt with each other. I think it's mostly a private joke than anything. Last fall House moved in with Wilson for medical reasons and that only served to fan the flames of the belief that they are 'friends with benefits'."

"And which view do you ascribe to?" the detective asked her, fascinated.

Hadley smiled almost fondly at that point. "I think they both are very much 'in like' with each other, at least. Actually, I'm pretty certain House is in love with Wilson. I just don't think the two of them are aware of it, especially Wilson. Now that he's taken up with his first ex-wife who poked him on Facebook 1 of all places…I'm more convinced than ever that Wilson is in active denial of his attraction for House. I think he's desperately trying to convince himself that he is the infamous heterosexual stud many think he is by dating Sam; why else would he pretty much out of the blue start dating a woman he had reason to divorce two decades ago?"

Warren sat silently sifting through Hadley's story. It certainly didn't contradict what he already knew about the two men; it was possible she simply wasn't aware that both men were aware of their attraction to each other and had, in fact, already acted upon it. However, there was the problem of the oncologist's reputation for being a womanizer and the fact that he was currently involved with a woman just as he had claimed earlier. That added a twist. It also meant that the extra toothbrush and toiletry bag in his bathroom might not belong to House after all. He made a mental note to find this girlfriend/ex-wife and ask a few questions of her.

"Detective," Hadley said, raising her voice slightly to get his attention. "I think you owe me something for telling you so much about the people I work with. I want to see House's attacker caught, but if are suspecting Wilson of the crime, you're way off base. Now tell me what the neighbors told you."

Warren smiled. She had come through, so he owed her at least that. He relayed to her the statement of the neighbor who confronted House about the noise in the middle of the night. When Hadley smirked and told him that House was infamous for spreading rumors and playing with people's minds, the detective then related to her what Nora had told him; _that_ had stumped the doctor.

"Interesting," she said with a devious smile and a shake of her head. "I was not expecting that. You're certain she was telling you the truth?"

Warren shrugged. "What reason would she have to lie? She seemed genuinely concerned about what had happened to House and the impact it would have on Wilson to discover that House was stepping out on him. She did say that House had been hurt by Wilson's coldness and opposition to being public about them."

Frowning, her mind working a thousand miles a minute, Hadley just shook her head and shrugged. "I guess it goes to show that you just never know about the people you think you know."

Warren nodded in agreement and then decided to shift gears. "Do you know of anyone at the hospital or associated to the hospital or Dr. House specifically who might have an axe to grind with him?"

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"I think it would be easier to list those people who don't have a reason to be angry with House," Chase smirked and then finished the last of his coffee which was lukewarm by then. "But specifically, I really don't know. House usually manages to piss off just about everybody he comes into contact with eventually, but it's been quite some time since he's gotten anyone murderously angry that I'm aware of. However…."

Anne Levison perked up when the doctor didn't complete his sentence but stopped to muse over something silently.

"Dr. Chase," she said, "However _what_?"

"Neh," he said, shaking his head. "He wouldn't have anything to do with this…I don't think."

The detective rolled her eyes in frustration. This doctor was good-looking but as about as sharp as a Nerf ball sometimes! "Who is it that you think wouldn't have anything to do with the attack and why do you think he wouldn't?"

He exhaled loudly through his nose. "Alright, but I want to say this first—I have absolutely no reason to believe this person did anything to House. It's just a thought that crossed my mind, alright?" He sighed when Levison nodded in agreement.

"There has been this thing, a flirtation I guess, between Dr. Cuddy and House for years, but especially in the past two years," he explained. "Some rumors had it that they were in a relationship, others simply stated that House was interested in pursuing a relationship with her but there wasn't anything really going on. Regardless, when House returned from rehab he accidentally discovered--like the rest of us—that Cuddy was in a serious relationship with Lucas."

"The Private Investigator House hired to spy on Dr. Wilson?" Levison asked to clarify.

"Yeah," Chase confirmed. "There must have been some kind of perceived challenge to Lucas' claim over her because of some destructive pranks Lucas pulled on House and Wilson shortly after they moved into the loft. I don't know the details about that—just that Wilson was pretty pissed about it; I heard him muttering that House could have been killed by by something Lucas did, but I don't know the details of that. Then House and Wilson were going through the cafeteria line one day and as they went to sit down Lucas intentionally tripped House and he went down bad. He wasn't badly hurt but he could have been the way he fell. I wasn't there but the story is Lucas admitted to pranking them as a warning to House to back off of Cuddy and not interfere in Lucas' and her relationship anymore."

"_Was_ Dr. House meddling in their affairs?" the female detective asked curiously.

"Probably," the Australian doctor answered with a smirk. "If there is a person that House finds interesting or whom he cares about he can cause a lot of havoc for them. I think he does it mostly for his own entertainment. He's like a kid with ADHD sometimes. He's got a brilliant mind that is constantly curious but he gets bored quickly and easily. A bored House is more than a handful. Just ask Dr. Cuddy."

"From what you've just said," Levison told him, "This Lucas fellow sounds like he isn't too concerned about the consequences of assaulting someone in public for his own reasons. That kind of person can be dangerous if he's carrying a grudge for you. What's his last name?"

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"Douglas," Hadley told Warren warily.

"That's spelled D-O-U-G-L-A-S, correct?" Warren asked as he scribbled in his notebook.

"I believe so," she replied, and bit her lower lip. "I'd rather you didn't mention my name anywhere in your report when it's associated with his name. I like my job and I want to keep it."

"You believe Dr. Cuddy would retaliate if she found out that you told us about the bad blood between Douglas and House?" Warren asked her, frowning. This triangle, if there was one, sounded like it could be quite combustible if enough friction was applied.

"I don't know," Hadley admitted frankly. "The incident in the cafeteria was blatant and public and the general consensus among the people in the cafeteria at the time was that neither House nor Wilson said or did anything to instigate Lucas' actions or retaliate after the fact; word of it spread like wildfire across the hospital by the end of the work day. I can't see how any administrator worth her weight in salt wouldn't have found out about it eventually but as far as anyone knows absolutely nothing happened as a result. Security didn't even investigate, which in itself is odd. So I'm not certain what would happen if Cuddy and Lucas knew I was talking to you about it and I'd rather not find out if it's all the same to you."

Warren harrumphed at that and put his notebook away in the inner pocket of his sports jacket.

"Thank you, Doctor," the detective said to her with an appreciative nod and standing up from the table. Before he could leave Hadley stopped him with her hand on his arm.

"House is not the easiest person in the world to get along with," she told him quietly, "but I think that underneath the jerk there just might be a half-decent person hiding. Make certain that the person or persons that did this to him don't get away with it."

Nodding in acknowledgement but promising nothing, Warren left the Differential room. He wondered what kind of success Levison was having with the other Fellow and what interesting information he had to share with her. It was looking more and more that Wilson may not have had anything to do with House's attack, but he couldn't be ruled out yet; he had no real alibi for the time that the actual strangulation occurred. According to the oncologist he was in his car driving home at the time—all alone—and when Uniformed deputies were sent door to door in the condo no one reported seeing him arrive at the building at all, both at the approximate time of the attack nor when Wilson claimed he arrived and found House. Maybe the older detective should have bet on Annie after all.

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Thirteen lurked surreptitiously in the Intensive Care waiting room until she saw Cuddy leave House's room before approaching it and entering. There were the normal sounds of monitors beeping, pumps running and the ventilator rhythmically breathing for the diagnostician, but the volume of the monitors had been turned down so if it wasn't quiet in the room, at least it wasn't as oppressive as it often was in an IC unit. She was mildly surprised to find that there was no one else there, like Wilson most notably, when she arrived. The oncologist did have a job to do, the woman reasoned, and couldn't be with House every second of the day, although that had never stopped him before. Perhaps she had just missed him, or possibly he had simply gone to the bathroom and would be back shortly.

Approaching House's bedside, she looked down at him and frowned. She reached out and traced the line of the ligature bruising and abrasions across his neck, her slender fingers barely touching his skin. It was so incredibly ugly; Thirteen felt nauseous just looking at it. He looked so pale and fragile, so vulnerable compared to the way she was used to seeing him every day; the diagnostician was an imposing figure with his six feet three inches of height staring down at most people. Before he had undergone detox and rehab he had been slightly underweight but possessed a sinewy strength that wasn't immediately visible just looking at him. After he had returned his face had been a ruddier, healthier tone and he had filled out, not with fat but with increased muscle development and had possessed more vigor than she had observed in him before. It was amazing what a difference cleaning out the toxic drugs and alcohol from his system, plus eating properly and being more active made in him physically. However, as the months progressed she had noticed him look a little less well again—not substantially so, but enough to be noticeable, and his attitude and mood had darkened somewhat as well, especially in the past month and a half. She had noticed the smell of alcohol on him more and more lately. Lying unconscious in a thin hospital gown, the tubes and lines going in and out of him made him look even sicklier than before he'd been admitted to the Psychiatric facility a year ago.

She wondered if anyone else had noticed the change, but she had. She hadn't approached her boss about it because everybody knew that House didn't like to have his private matters pried into or scrutinized, but she had kept track. The smell of alcohol on his breath at work had begun just a few weeks ago…immediately after Wilson had begun dating his ex-wife. Thirteen couldn't help but wonder if there was a connection. Knowing what she did now, she wondered if House's decline lately wasn't due a depression based on watching the object of his desire once again overlook him and choose someone more socially acceptable to be romantically involved with. It was just speculation, she knew, but she had a visceral feeling that she wasn't too far off the mark.

Thirteen sat in the chair next to his bed. She reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing it gently. She startled when she felt what she was certain was a squeeze back. A smile tugged at her mouth even though she knew that it could have been nothing more than a reflex response. She placed her fingers on a pressure point on his shoulder just under his clavicle and pressed hard, intending on it hurting like hell. She was rewarded by his face forming a definite grimace and a groan of protest. His arm swung in the direction of the offending stimulus. Her smile broadened.

Taking his hand again she said to him, "House? House, can you hear me?"

He gave her another groan and then a grunt. Now her eyes were gleaming.

"House, if you can hear and understand me," Thirteen instructed, "I want you to squeeze my hand. House, squeeze my hand!"

She waited for a few moments but there was no response from him. Thirteen saw a flinch of a muscle in his cheek.

"House," she said again, a little more forcefully, "Squeeze my hand!"

Thirteen watched his face very carefully and swore she saw something significant with his mouth. Her smile turned into a scowl. Very deliberately she lifted his hand and placed it on one of her breasts.

"Squeeze now… you son of a bitch!" she ordered, feeling the urge to haul off and punch him. As soon as she felt his fingers twitch she pulled his hand away from her chest and threw it down at him. A sly smile appeared on the diagnostician's face and then a chuckle tried to escape past the breathing tube protruding from his mouth, causing him to begin to gag. It quickly became apparent to her that he was capable of breathing on his own.

Two brilliant blues eyes opened slowly and immediately focused on her. She tried to look angry but couldn't hide her amusement for long.

"Bastard," she muttered as she removed the medical tape securing the breathing tube in place; she was merciless, ripping it off quickly, pulling a few whiskers from his scruff out with it. He winced and frowned at her. "Serves you right!" she told him. "I'm going to pull it out. When I do, swallow and keep swallowing until it's out—you know the drill! Now!"

Quickly and skillfully she pulled the tube out of his throat. As soon as it was clear of his mouth the diagnostician began to start coughing, bringing up phlegm. She grabbed a box of tissues on a nearby table and used a few to catch the mucus . She tossed the tissues into a biohazard bag in the corner of the room along with the tube and then glared at him, her hands on her hips.

"How long have you been conscious before I caught you?" she demanded, shaking her head disapprovingly, but a smile still graced her face.

"Before…Cuddy left," he answered hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper; he grimaced at the pain in his throat as he spoke due to the irritation caused by the breathing tube being inserted originally and then just having been removed. House frowned, looking frustrated. He seemed to have difficulty finding the words he wanted to say, pausing to search for them and then having to concentrate hard on linking them together. "Much of…blackmail …things…from her."

"I'll bet!" Thirteen said with mock-disgust; she was too relieved at seeing him awake and aware to be angry. She tried to hide her reaction to his obvious difficulty in forming sentences and selecting the appropriate words. House might have been struggling with language, but his observation skills were unimpaired.

"Trouble…words not…right," he told her, his blue eyes betraying his fear. "What…tell me…how here? Damn!"

Thirteen sat in the chair next to his bed. She wanted to touch his hand comfortingly but she knew how he felt about being touched so she refrained and chose to try to soothe him with words instead.

"Take it easy," she told him, trying not to sound like she was talking down to him. "You were just in a coma. You may have some temporary deficits but at this point that's not unusual and you need to relax and give it a little time. Now, I think you were asking me what happened to you and why you're in the ICU. Am I correct?"

After a moment House nodded his head, the fear still in his eyes but now accompanied by anger.

Before Thirteen could say anything more she heard the door to the room slide open and both she and House looked over to see Wilson entering the room. He had a look of astonishment on his face at discovering his best friend awake; it quickly became a relieved grin as he approached the bed.

"How long?" he asked, turning to Thirteen for the answer.

"Hey Idiot!" House rasped, looking annoyed. "Me…ask. Speak…no! I…can't…." He pounded the mattress in frustration. "Wilson, tell _what!_?"

Wilson looked at House and then asked Thirteen loudly enough for House to hear, "Verbal deficits?"

Thirteen nodded, rising from the chair. "Apparently. He's getting pissed off about it too. I tried to remind him that it's not unheard of right after emerging from a coma. He wants to know what happened. I don't think he remembers the incident that you forgot to inform the _rest_ of us about. We had to hear it from certain curious people nosing around. I think maybe I should leave telling him up to you." Directly to House she said, "I just came to check in on you, make sure you weren't just ditching Clinic duty. Speaking of which…I'll see you later." She gave Wilson a knowing look and as she brushed past him on her way to the door she heard him whisper, "Thanks. Do me a favor? Have Foreman paged, will you?"

She nodded and gave him an encouraging smile before leaving them alone to talk. She delivered the message at the nursing station, sticking around just long enough to see through the window as Wilson took the seat she had just vacated and touch House's hand gently as he talked with him. It was such a simple sign of comfort and intimacy; knowing what she did now about House, she wondered if those little signs of affection were based on a mutual attraction that perhaps House recognized much better than Wilson did. With a sigh she headed to the Clinic.

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1 Disclaimer: I don't own Facebook either. I'd have a much better computer is I did.


	8. Chapter 8

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **Wilson and House have their first opportunity to talk since House's attack and we head back to The Spectra Lounge. Hold onto your seats! Just a reminder: I'm not a medical professional so if there are any inaccuracies in those kind of details, please forgive me. I do my best to research what I write about, but sometimes I make mistakes.

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Eight**

Wilson waited until Thirteen had left them alone to say anything more to his best friend. This was the first time since the attack that the two of them had had the opportunity to talk and the oncologist didn't have a clue what the hell to say to him. 'Hey House, you were in a coma and oh, by the way, I know that you're gay and it has me feeling a little uncomfortable around you now.' There was no way he could say that, but what he should say he didn't know.

_Just answer his question_, Wilson told himself. _He already knows that he swings both ways. You're the one with the hang up about it, not him_.

"Tell…what…happened?" House demanded again, taking long pauses after each word he spoke to find the right words and piece them together. There was fear in the diagnostician's eyes. Wilson couldn't imagine how frightening it would be to wake up in the hospital with no recollection of what put you there and then having a language deficit on top of it all.

"It's a long story, House," Wilson told him warily. "Are sure you feel up to hearing it all right now?"

"Speech!" House shouted in frustration, glaring daggers at him. The oncologist sighed; he wasn't going to be given the opportunity to put off the conversation to another time. The problem was, House and he never talked to each other about issues like the one at hand. How could he find the guts to start now?

"Last evening," Wilson began, feeling short of breath, "I came home to find that you had been attacked; someone had tried to strangle you to death but I don't know who. When I found you, you weren't breathing—you couldn't because the ligature was still wrapped and knotted around your neck. I cut it off, called for help and had to perform Artificial Respiration on you until the paramedics arrived. You were already very cyanotic; I don't know how long you had gone without oxygen but you've been in a coma all night and most of this morning. Your language difficulties are likely a result of the stagnant anoxia. There may be other neurological deficits that we haven't discovered yet. A CT scan was done of your head and we should be getting the results soon. It will give us an idea of just how much damage was done, where it was concentrated and the severity. At this point I don't want you to panic. Your difficulties may be temporary and treated with specialized therapy—but you already know all of that."

Wilson saw the fear in his friend's brilliant blue eyes intensify, as did his bewilderment.

"Do you remember anything about what happened?" Wilson asked him. "Any details? Images or impressions?"

Shaking his head slowly, House began to breathe a little more rapidly and the heart monitor displayed the increase in his heart rate.

"Why? What?—no! _How_?" the older doctor asked almost desperately. Wilson interpreted the words to be his wanting to know how it had come to happen and why…everything Wilson was hoping not to have to discuss with him. He knew he couldn't avoid the topic forever, though.

"I only know what I was told by the police what happened to you before the attack," the younger man reminded him before swallowing hard, taking a deep breath and breeching the subject. "The police have been able to piece together some clues found at the loft and the testimony of witnesses to produce a sketchy picture. Apparently instead of going home after work, you signed yourself out early because of illness and then ended up at a nightclub. Are you remembering any of this so far?"

House shook his head no again.

Wilson nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. It would have been so much easier if the diagnostician had been able to recall what had happened.

"The nightclub is called The Spectra Lounge," he continued carefully, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. "House, it's a _gay_ nightclub."

When House didn't show any sign of being surprised Wilson realized that House remembered his proclivities at least. The diagnostician averted his gaze away from the oncologist's, his face becoming an impassive mask.

"While there you drank quite a bit. You…hooked up with a guy named Davin, and you both returned to the loft and," Wilson sighed, "had sex, during which you engaged in erotic asphyxiation. Your…date…took it too far, and the police figure it wasn't accidental. He was trying to kill you and probably thought he had before escaping not long before I got home."

Stopping and remaining silent the younger doctor waited expectantly for some kind of response from his friend. When one wasn't forthcoming, Wilson tried to prompt one.

"Are you starting to remember now?" he asked.

House kept staring away from him and said nothing. The stoic mask stayed solidly in place. Wilson knew that there was a hell of a lot going on behind that mask that the diagnostician didn't want anyone to see. He just wished he knew what all it was. He didn't know about House, but Wilson knew _he needed_ to talk about it, but simply couldn't bring himself to do so. Likely all House wanted was to avoid any conversation whatsoever.

"Look, House—we both know _now_ that you're bisexual. If you're worried about what I'm thinking I can tell you that it's probably not what you think," Wilson told him quietly. "I'll admit that I'm surprised, but I'm not freaking out. I'm not angry. I'm not about to end our friendship over this. I do want to understand, though, and I guess I'm curious as to why you felt you couldn't reveal this part of your life to me after knowing each other for nearly two decades."

"Know," House said at last but still refused to look at him. "Surprise. You." He shook his head. "No…no…you know…know—_knew_. _Knew_! You!"

Wilson shook his head in confusion. "House I…I don't understand what you're trying to tell me." He sat in frustration for a few moments and then a thought occurred to him. He got up to his feet suddenly. "I'll be right back! Just…just hold on!" The oncologist rushed out of the room and returned less than a minute later holding onto a legal pad and a pen. He sat down again and set the paper and pen on the bed. He elevated House's bed until he was sitting at about a seventy-five degree angle. He then put the pen in House's right hand.

"You do remember how to use a pen, right?" Wilson asked him, not taking anything for granted after a brain injury. Sometimes patients would suffer from _apraxia_; they would forget how to sequentially carry out tasks that they had once taken for granted, or forgot the use or function of common objects. When House gave him a dirty look and rolled his eyes in disgust Wilson was reassured that his friend remembered just fine. House reached for the pad of paper with his left hand—and missed it by several inches. He frowned deeply and reached again, missing once again. His respiratory rate began to increase again and his eyes betrayed his alarm.

Trying not to show his own concern Wilson simply pushed the pad of paper until it was under House's hand. The diagnostician grasped it and brought it to himself where he could reach to write on it. When he went to put pen to paper he once again reached to the wrong place, missing the paper. It was obvious to both doctors that House's brain was having difficulty processing the visual input it was receiving and translating it to hand-eye coordination. House in his frustration lifted the pen as if to throw it away but Wilson grabbed his wrist before he could. The older man tried to shake Wilson's grip but couldn't.

"House!" Wilson told him sharply. "I know you're frustrated and scared—yes, scared! That's _normal_. You can't allow any of this to discourage you so soon after regaining consciousness! Come on, you know as well as I do that these problems are probably temporary and even if they're not with rehabilitation therapy you can relearn these skills! Give your brain a chance to heal before giving up. You probably still have some brain swelling and that could account for some or all of these symptoms!"

Wilson guided House's hand so that the pen rested on the paper. "I'll help you stay on the paper while you write," he told the older man. "Write for me what you were trying to say. Don't think on the words and how they sound in your head. Try to bypass that and just write."

At first the oncology thought House was going to refuse but after a few seconds House began to write on the pad. His hand shook but he was able to write legibly enough to be deciphered.

'You know who I am. You knew. Remember?'

Wilson read as House scrawled. He felt cold shivers run down his spine. He knew what the diagnostician was referring to, and it terrified him to broach this particular memory again with his best friend. The oncologist closed his eyes for a second and took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to control his rising panic.

"I…I'm n-not sure I kn-know what you're talking about," he said in reply, cursing himself for his damned stammering. It gave him away to House every time.

'Liar!' his best friend wrote down, stabbing at the word angrily with the pen—and missing the word each time. 'You were not that drunk.'

It was the younger man's turn to look away. He was sorry he had said anything. He couldn't go where House wanted him to.

"You!" House said out loud to get Wilson's attention. "Now!"

Wilson shook his head, his eyes still averted. He felt fine droplets of perspiration form on his forehead and upper lip. "I can't…I-I can't d-do this now. I-I can't--!"

House reached out and in a swing motion tried to grab at him, hitting his arm by luck and grasping it. This caused Wilson to look back at him. House waved his pen hand and Wilson caught the hint; reluctantly he guided the older man's hand back to the paper.

'Don't be a coward. Face it! I wasn't drunk,' wrote the diagnostician, who scribbled lines under the last sentence.

The implication was not lost on Wilson. His unspoken question was answered. House had known what he was doing when they had…had been together. It hadn't been a drunken mistake or a lapse in judgment. He had been with Wilson because he had _wanted_ to be. It had been intentional; House had wanted him. The oncologist suddenly felt betrayed, used.

"You admit that you took advantage of me?" Wilson asked angrily, his eyes blazing with anger.

'Fuck you!' House wrote angrily. 'You knew what you were doing! You were willing! Admit it!'

"No, House," Wilson answered adamantly. "I was completely pissed! I never would have--! I'm not gay! Hell, I've been married three times! I was in love with Amber! I've slept with more nurses in this hospital--! I--!" He stopped talking because he couldn't think of an argument that House would accept as being valid.

_Is there one?_ A nagging thought in his mind said, only to be immediately followed by several more, all in rapid succession. _You remember every detail. You loved every moment. You dreamt about it for weeks after, no matter how hard you tried not to. When House had agreed with you that it was for the best never to return to it again, you were actually disappointed. You can't stop thinking about it now. You haven't been able to think about anything else but him since you found him dying. You can't concentrate on anything or anyone else; not your patients, not yourself, not even Sam. You begged God not to let the most important person in the world to you die. Most important. House. Not Sam…._

"No!" Wilson shouted, both to his thoughts and to House's accusing glare. "Not this! Not now!"

With that Wilson ran from House's room as quickly as his legs would carry him. He was on the verge of a panic attack and something else, something he didn't want himself to see much less anyone else. He had to get out of the hospital. He had to go home and get his head thinking straight. He had to see Sam. He really, _really_ had to see Sam!

The oncologist didn't see Foreman until he was practically on top of him and at the last minute he swerved; their left shoulders struck. Foreman was sent off balance and nearly fell but Wilson, whose momentum had been greater, continued forward with little or no pause. Ordinarily he never would continue on his way without apologizing first but this was not an ordinary situation and the idea of stopping didn't even cross his mind. Instead of waiting for the elevator he took the stairs, heading for his office for his jacket. Halfway there he remembered than he hadn't brought one with him to the hospital. The second thing that occurred to him was that he had no vehicle at the hospital either; he'd ridden along on the ambulance with House.

"Damnit!" he shouted, stopping in the middle of a flight of stairs and startling two women also taking the stairs; again he didn't even notice. He continued on to his office and once there he locked himself inside. Not having an ounce of strength left he launched himself onto his sofa and just sat there in the dark, slumped like an abandoned rag doll. He panted for breath. His mind was spinning, as was the room around him. In the back of his mind he knew that he was hyperventilating but he did nothing about it.

He wasn't gay! He didn't want to have sex with men. He desired women. He was straight. Damnit! Damnit! Why had all of this happened? Life was finally going right. House had been able to stay off the drugs for almost a year. He had finally begun a life of his own again. He was back on course with Sam. He was already considering asking her to move in with him. He was also considering asking House if he was ready to move out on his own again. Then this! God damn that idiot! Why was House always so self-centered, so selfish! Why did he have to choose now to out himself, have a one-night stand and get himself strangled? _Why….why…oh God, I can't breathe. I…I think I'm going to…I…!_

Wilson passed out from his uncontrolled hyperventilation.

It was the incessant knocking on the office door that began to rouse him, but not completely. He was floating in a grey cloud without any more sound, where he couldn't really think and didn't really care. Suddenly he felt something grip his shoulder but he couldn't imagine what it could be. It was shaking him and shaking. Then came the voice, then voices and slowly he began to understand what they were saying.

"—breathing!"

"Go...oxygen…."

"Wilson…hear me? Wilson?"

"What happened?"

"—passed out. He wasn't answering me, so I let myself in. I found him like this!"

"Got it!"

"Hand it over! Put the mask on!"

"I think he's coming to!"

The oncologist felt something being placed on his face. He felt a cool hand on his wrist. A warmer hand lightly slapped his cheek. Wilson slowly opened his eyes but it took him a moment to process what he saw. Chase crouched next to where he laid on the sofa. He was placing the elastic behind his head to secure the oxygen mask that rested over his nose and mouth. Cuddy was beside him, checking his wrist for his radial pulse. Foreman stood behind them, staring down at him with an expression of concern and bewilderment. He blinked a couple of times and took a couple of deep breaths, his mind clearing as he did.

"Hi," Cuddy said to him, frowning slightly. "Can you hear me, Wilson?"

He nodded. "Yeah…yes. I'm fine."

"Like hell you are!" Cuddy told him dryly, exhaling with relief. "You were unconscious! What happened?"

Wilson wasn't completely certain himself. He tried to push himself up to sitting when Chase put a hand on his shoulder to hold him down.

"Whoa, there, Wilson!" the Australian doctor told him. "Just lay back and relax. Take some more deep breaths."

"When you passed me in ICU you were already hyperventilating," Foreman told him. "You probably just made it here before passing out. What happened back there? You looked like you were running for your life from something!"

Running for his life. Those words echoed in Wilson's head. His mind flashed back to the dark living room, to a drunk House. _'What is it exactly you think I'm doing to myself?' 'Running away.' 'What am I supposedly running away from? House?' 'From yourself…and as a result, from me._'

"I'm not running," Wilson said aloud at himself. "I have nothing to run from."

The three other doctors in the room exchanged looks of confusion.

"Nothing happened," Wilson lied to them, his mind returning to the present. "I…I just had to do something. That's all."

"What was so important that you were hyperventilating?" Cuddy asked, unconvinced. "Did something happen with House? Did he wake up? Did he say something?"

Did House say something_?_ Wilson thought. Yes, yes he did…back in the dark….

_'But I'm not running away from you again….' 'You can't help it…you have to, if you're going to be…the guy everybody tells you that you should be…You're so obsessed with being what others say is normal…as long as I'm around, you can't forget about here, and convince yourself you belong there…As long as this isn't good enough for you I never will be….'_

"Wilson?" Cuddy said his name and touched his hand to get his attention. He looked at her, saw the deepening concern on her face. "Did House say anything to you?"

"No—I mean, yes," Wilson quickly corrected himself, and licked his lips. "He tried to talk but he couldn't, not well. He's having trouble finding the words he wants to say and putting them together to complete a thought, but only while speaking. He seems to be able to process when he's writing. He's also having difficulty processing visual cues and coordinating it with his hands. He'll see a pad of paper and reach to grab it, but his hand will miss it by two or three inches every time.

"It's not good to hear that," Foreman commented. "It's not unusual, though. As far as talking, he may have done so to you, but he's not talking anymore."

This time Wilson did sit up, ignoring the protests. He looked at Foreman with concern.

"What do you mean?" the oncologist asked with concern.

"I walked into the room to find him throwing a pad of paper at my head," the neurologist told him with a snort. "He began to pull off all of his leads, he yanked out his IV _and_ his catheter, he tried to get out of bed but his legs wouldn't support him and he fell. He was yelling…no, no he was _screaming_. There were no words, just this high pitched screaming and wailing. I had to sedate him so we could get him back into bed and even sedated he fought the nurses when they tried to replace the IV and the catheter. We had to put him in the restraints for his own good. Then he just stopped screaming, stopped resisting. It was like he just…gave up. He won't open his eyes, he won't talk or even acknowledge that someone is in the room with him. So, forgive me if I don't believe you when you say that nothing happened. Something _did_ and I want to know what!"

The Dean of Medicine crossed her arms in front of her. "So would I!"

"Not now!" Chase told them, objecting. "Wilson's obviously not feeling alright himself and this is not the time to get him anymore upset." That seemed to quiet Cuddy and Foreman. Chase turned back to Wilson and said softly, "You need to go home, get some rest before you collapse again and we have to admit you. House is going to be alright. He's probably just pissed about something. Once he calms down he'll be fine. You came in with House on the 'Bus', didn't you?"

Wilson nodded, continuing to take in deep, slow breaths of richly oxygenated air. "Yes. I don't have my vehicle here. I'll call for a cab."

"No," Cuddy spoke up. "Chase can drive you home and make sure that you make it there alright. Get some sleep—then I want to hear about what really set the two of you off." She turned on her high heels and marched out of his office. Foreman followed her soon after.

Wilson had no intention of ever telling her what had truly caused him to panic and run from the diagnostician's side. House was right. He was running away; he had been running away from House, especially since he'd started dating Sam again. He had just run away from his best friend when he was, perhaps, at his most vulnerable. He felt like shit for doing it. He wanted to go back and apologize and make certain that House was going to be alright. He sincerely wanted to, but he wasn't going to. He couldn't. Not now. Not yet.

Removing the mask from his face, Wilson sighed and looked at Chase. He really was exhausted.

"I would appreciate it," he admitted almost sheepishly, "if you don't mind?"

"No worries," the Fellow told him with an encouraging smile. He gave the oncologist a hand up from the sofa. The older doctor was still trembling a little and he felt a little lightheaded and listed on his feet a bit; Chase noticed and put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Wilson was asked. "Maybe you should sit again--."

"I'm fine," he answered a little curtly. He smiled to soften his words. "I was just a little lightheaded. I'm okay now. I just want to go home."

Chase nodded and they both left Wilson's office.

Wilson said very little on the drive back to the loft and Chase respected him enough not to press for information or annoy him with idle small talk. When they arrived at the condo complex Chase parked the car on the street out front. He got out of the car at the same time Wilson did.

"You don't have to walk me up Chase," Wilson smirked, amused in spite of his bad mood. "I'm fine."

The younger doctor shrugged, standing his ground. "I don't want to face the wrath of Cuddy should anything happen to you on your way to your apartment. I'm coming."

Sighing, Wilson nodded in acknowledgement. He was too tired to argue. He let them into the building and led the way to the elevator. When the car arrived and the doors opened Norah was standing there. She looked at Wilson sternly, and then at Chase, eyeing him from head to toe before looking back to Wilson.

"Uh," Wilson said uncomfortably, "Hello, Nora. Getting off on this floor?"

"Hello, James," she said, frowning slightly. She stepped off of the elevator but snagged the oncologist's sleeve before he could walk past her.

"Is there something wrong?" he demanded, growing a little impatiently. It was because of her that the police thought he and House were gay lovers.

"Don't you think it's a little inappropriate to be bringing a…_friend_ home," she asked him, looking at Chase with disgust, "when Greg is in the hospital fighting for his life?"

At first Wilson had no idea what she meant by that, but only for a second or two. He then realized who and what she thought Chase was. If the situation hadn't been so incredibly overwhelming for him at that point, he would have considered her concern for House kind of…nice. Incredibly misguided, but nice. Unfortunately he felt like a nuclear reactor approaching melt down and he had no patience for her.

"Mind your own business, Nora," he told her sharply and then pulled his arm away from her and entered the elevator, where Chase already stood waiting, holding the car for him. Once the doors closed, Chased chuckled in amusement.

"What was that all about?" he asked the oncologist, who was pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, and holding himself up against the wall with the other.

"I don't think that woman actually has an apartment here," Wilson replied, shaking his head in disdain. "She spends so much of her time snooping on the other tenants she probably doesn't need one!"

Chase looked at the older doctor quizzically but didn't say anything, which was a relief to the oncologist. They stepped off the elevator once it stopped on the top floor. Wilson headed to his door which still had a small fragment of the yellow 'Police Investigation—Do Not Cross This Line' tape clinging to it. It hadn't crossed his mind that the police could have still have had the loft sequestered; fortunately, it appeared that they had completed their search for evidence and had moved on. He pushed the door open. There was an odd, musty smell within. He turned back to Chase.

"Uh, ordinarily," Wilson said, "I would invite you in for a beer but forgive me if I don't today. All I want to do is go to bed."

"No problem, Wilson," Chase told him, nodding. "That's the whole point. I'll see you later."

"Yes," Wilson said in response. "Thanks again for the ride."

Chase just nodded and then headed back for the elevator.

Wilson stepped into the loft and closed the door behind him, locking it immediately. He walked into the living room and set his keys down into a decorative bowl resting on the occasional table along the wall. He went to the phone to check for messages. Seeing that there weren't any he headed to his bedroom. He was hungry, but he was even more tired. Still, he didn't want to crawl into bed without showering first, so he did so quickly, donning a white undershirt and red boxers afterwards. He climbed into bed, pulled the covers up snugly around his ears and was asleep almost immediately.

###########################################################################################

House lay nearly flat, staring up at the ceiling tiles. Peripherally he could see the IV pole and the bags of fluid hanging from it and the different monitors he'd been reconnected to after he'd tried to go after his best friend. He tried to move his arms but found that he couldn't make them budge from his sides and he realized that he'd been restrained; when he tried to move his legs he found that they had been bound to the bed as well. Panic began to rise up inside of him; being restrained or trapped was one of his greatest phobias. When he had been bound while still in Mayfield, it had been a hellish nightmare that had lasted for hours.

He cursed himself over and over again for doing the one thing he'd sworn both to Wilson and to himself that he would never do. Why had he brought up that one incredible night that had taken place almost fifteen years ago? He knew that his best friend would react the way he had, that doing so might forever damage, or even destroy, their friendship! The way that the oncologist sprinted away he knew that he'd hit a nerve, that he had touched upon that part of him that was in quiet, constant turmoil that the younger man tried and usually managed to deny even existed. House was terrified that Wilson might never come back. Just because he had returned the last time he ran away didn't mean that he would again, especially since he had Sam now to comfort him and keep him company.

Blinking back tears of frustration and pain, House tried not to think about the future of loneliness he had ahead of him combined with the possibility that he might have permanent brain damage. He felt his heart aching, longing for Wilson to come back so that he could explain…everything. He wanted to tell him the truth: that one night the two of them had shared had not been just another fuck for him; he had realized then that he loved Wilson and wanted more, _needed _more of him. He'd known that he would never be the same, never be able shake him from his thoughts and dreams. House wanted the oncologist to know that he was still in love with him, more than ever. He didn't want to share him with yet another woman who would do everything she could to drive the two doctors apart. More than anything House didn't want to lose him from his life. He'd survived fifteen years since that night hiding his feelings and never talking about it for Wilson's sake, forcing himself to be satisfied with simple friendship, although in truth their friendship had never been simple. He would force himself to endure fifteen more without another word of that night if it meant he could have Wilson in his life for as long as he managed to survive.

He'd wait out Sam; when that relationship ultimately failed, Wilson would come back to him again. He only wished that Wilson could see the truth dangling in front of his face; his relationships with women never lasted because they were incapable of giving him what House could.

He closed his eyes again, shutting out the world. If he had alienated the oncologist and had destroyed their friendship for good, then his life wouldn't be worth the living.


	9. Chapter 9

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **We start off with a bang—or rather, a lot of sizzle! Enjoy! It was pointed out to me that my safety measures were lacking (i.e., condoms for both) so I've edited. If you see anything else I've missed, let me know!

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Nine**

_They sat on the sofa in front of the TV watching some sit-com or another. House set his half-drank bottle of beer onto the coffee table. He watched him lean back into his seat and stretch out his arms across the back of the seat and continue to stare at the TV. He didn't know how much the older man had had to drink, but Wilson knew that he'd had his fair share and while he wasn't drunk, he was well on his way there. He was feeling very good, very relaxed. He couldn't help but stare at his best friend as the diagnostician stared straight ahead at the show. _

_House looked…good. Really good. He was handsome in a rugged, unassuming kind of way, and didn't waste time on trying to primp and preen to be attractive for women. Despite his foul temperament and physical disability, he had a certain charm about him when he wanted to gain the interest of a prospective lay and so long as he didn't talk too much and say something offensive or alienating, he had pretty good luck. That night he didn't just look good…he looked __**fucking fantastic**__. The younger man could feel himself harden just staring at him, and he began to think about what that stubble on his face would feel like on strategic parts of his body. House licked his lip absently and all Wilson could think about was where he'd love to have that tongue lick him._

_It was the alcohol, he knew, that was lowering his normal inhibition towards those of thoughts about the diagnostician. He had them whether he was drunk or not, especially lately, but when he was sober he was better equipped to deny the growing attraction that was developing between them. Right then, however, he just didn't __**feel**__ like looking away, imagining the breasts of the charge nurse in oncology to distract him from the lustful fantasies he was having for the other man._

_Wilson's breathing was becoming heavier as his arousal grew. Without warning House turned his head from watching TV to look at him. His incredible blue eyes met Wilson's with an intensity that set him on fire. An amused smirk crossed his lips. There was no doubt in his mind that the older man knew exactly what it was he was thinking and needing. God damn, but he was sexy! The smirk on House's face changed to a sly smile and his azure blue eyes began to darken to smoldering cobalt. The unmistakable look of want, of lust stared back at Wilson and they stared at each other for a long time before House picked up the remote control and shut the TV off and then set it down again on the table._

_"What do you want, Wilson?" the diagnostician asked him, his voice deep and husky and dripping with desire. "Is there something that I can do for you?"_

_Wilson smiled thinly, and nodded slowly._

_"Come here," House told him simply._

_Feeling dizzy he moved closer to House's end of the couch._

_"Closer," the older man murmured._

_"No," the oncologist told him. "__**You**__ come __**here**__."_

_A wolfish grin crossed his best friend's face. After a moment House slid over closer until they were touching at their shoulders, their hips, down along their thighs to their knees. Wilson could feel the heat coming off of the older man. He could smell him, a hint of his soap mixed with hospital antiseptic and his own musk that was distinctly House. He loved the scent of his best friend, always had. It was almost intoxicating. The oncologist was very hard now and his member strained against his pants to be freed, to be touched. He could tell by looking that his wasn't the only one._

_Wilson raised his hand and placed it on the back of House's neck. He could feel the perspiration on his skin and the way in which the diagnostician's skin formed goose-pimples at the slightest touch. He could hear House breathing heavily, and watch the rise and fall of his chest. Wilson placed his hand on the other man's side and began to caress him through his shirt as he pulled his head closer to his own. Their faces were close enough for the oncologist to feel his friend's breath on his face, smell the beer on it. House's eyes were hooded and staring at Wilson's mouth. The diagnostician snaked an arm around Wilson's shoulders, resting his hand on the back of the younger man's neck. His other long-fingered hand grabbed Wilson's jaw. Holding his face where he wanted it House leaned in and pressed his lips hard against Wilson's. They kissed with amazing passion combined with want, lust and a competition for dominance. It was a fight between them as to whose tongue would be shoved into the others mouth. Their teeth knocked against each other. Wilson growled softly into House's mouth and he nipped at House's lip. House bit back hard enough to draw blood but the pain only made Wilson's growing need only that much greater. God, House tasted as incredible as the oncologist had imagined! He was an incredible kisser, just as Wilson had suspected he would be._

_They drew back only enough for breath before joining their mouths again, slightly less violently as at first but with more passion, much more deeply. Wilson's hand on House's side began to move south until it reached the waistband of his jeans. Wilson slipped his hand underneath the hem of the older man's shirt and began to caress and tease his way over towards the navel before moving up towards one of his tits, where he began to trace circles around the areola; House shivered and then moaned softly from deep in his throat._

_House pulled back from the kiss to breathe and whispered, "Oh, fuck, Wilson...You're so fucking hot!" He began to minister to Wilson's jaw line, up to his ear when his sucked on the younger man's ear lobe and then traced the shell of the ear with his tongue; he smiled when he heard Wilson's breath catch several times and a long moan rise up from deep within him. He began to lick his way down his neck stopping at the point where the neck and shoulder met to nibble, kiss, and suck on the erotic hot spot. His hands had made their way to the oncologist's hips where his fingers slipped teasingly under the waist band of his trousers to play in the soft, curly hair they found. This had the desired effect of driving Wilson crazy, grunting and bucking his hips once._

_"Oh God, House," Wilson murmured with need. "Don't stop there! More, lower…fucking __**touch**__ me!"_

_The oncologist began to frantically tug at House's shirt, lifting it to remove it. With the other man's cooperation he pulled his over his head and threw it to the floor. Both of his hands moved to the older man's chest, running his hands all over his skin, raking through the smattering of hair on his chest. Meanwhile House began to undo the buttons on Wilson's shirt but after three of them grew impatient and tore the shirt open, pulled it off over his wrists. Next he made quick work of the undershirt as well._

_"Bedroom?" House murmured into Wilson's ear, nipping at it. The oncologist nodded, rising to his feet and pulling the other man to his. The cane was abandoned as the men, their hands all over each other, made their way down the short corridor to House's bedroom. Along the way they peeled off the remaining clothing from each other. When they reached the bed Wilson pushed the older man onto the bed. House grinned, appreciating the aggression. He moved himself completely onto the bed and Wilson crawled on and moved up to kneel between his legs, avoiding his ruined thigh. He looked down at House's throbbing erection, his own just aching for contact. He laid himself over the diagnostician, their cocks making contact, rubbing against each other, sending sparks of electricity shoot up each other's spines, earning a growl from House, who began to move his pelvis up towards Wilson's, moving and grinding against it. Guttural gasps escaped both men at the incredible pleasure they were generating for each other. Their hands and mouths worked their magic wherever they landed, caressing, rubbing, pinching, clawing, squeezing, licking, kissing, sucking, biting._

_"I've wanted you for so long!" House growled into Wilson's ear. "To suck you, to fuck you…."_

_Wilson covered House's mouth with his, shoving his tongue deeply into the other's mouth, probing every bit of it, mapping it out, wrestling with his tongue, both of the moaning desperately. House's hands found the younger man's ass, squeezing and kneading the firm muscles, pulling his cock closer, creating more incredible heat and friction._

_In one smooth motion the diagnostician rolled the both of them to the left until he was on top of the oncologist. He grinned wickedly, staring down into the younger man's eyes that were filled with wanton lust and desperation. Their bodies were slick from sweat. House kissed Wilson hungrily and then began to lick and suck his way down to his Adam's apple and the down further to his chest where he found Wilson's tits and began to suck on one while toying and twisting the other._

_Wilson began to grind against House, moaning, nearly whining. It was almost too much for him. The older man really knew how to use his mouth and tongue and the oncologist couldn't help but want to find out how it would feel on his throbbing, twitching member._

_Lifting his head to look up at the younger man's face, House grinned at the aching desire he found there, proud to know that he was that was in control of doing that to him._

_"Where do you want me to suck next?" he said lustily._

_"Oh…oh please suck my dick!" the oncologist literally begged, too far gone to care about preserving any dignity. All he cared about was relief._

_"Well, since you said __**please**__…." House murmured, continuing with his tongue down to Wilson's abdomen and then along the love path to his pelvis. He paused long enough to grab a condom from the drawer in his bedside table and rolled it quickly onto Wilson's engorged penis. The other man began to thrust his hips involuntarily. The diagnostician smirked and began to lick up the underside of the oncologist's penis to the tip of the head where he tickled and teased with his tongue, bring out groans and murmured curses. After what seemed to Wilson to be a torturous eternity House enveloped his entire length with only one small gag before controlling the reflex. Wilson thrust into his mouth, his grunts and groans becoming more impassioned. His eyes rolled back into his head and he closed the lids. As House bobbed his head up and down and sucked in rhythm with the younger man's thrusts he used his tongue to swirl against his dick and with one of his hands he caressed his scrotum and then began to gently roll his testes in his hand._

_Oh god, oh god, oh House!" Wilson babbled, coming closer and closer to climax, "Oh…Oh ..no…no…oh god…I'm…I'm…! He climaxed and ejaculated into the condom, and House continued to suck until it was complete. Wilson panted hard, completely overwhelmed by his orgasm. A smile expanded across his face. He opened his eyes to see his older friend gazing down at him indulgently, a genuine smile on his face. There was also need, however. House held his own hard penis in his hand, rubbing slowly._

_"No!" Wilson told him insistently. "Let me… let me do that! Did you want to…be in me?"_

_House nodded, "Are you sure?" he said breathlessly. "Your first time…sometimes it's…painful-."_

_"I'm sure," the younger man told him, not telling him that he had done it before._

_House grinned, grabbing two more condoms for them. He grabbed a tube of lubricant at the same time. Wilson had already rolled over. House applied some lube around his opening and Wilson hissed with pleasure. With some on his fingers as well, he inserted a finger into the opening, gently stretching, following that with additional finger in turn. Then he entered the opening with his aching member, gasping as he did. A moan left the younger man but that was all._

_"My god, you're tight!" House breathed, closing his eyes in ecstasy. He began to thrust slowly and shallowly, not wanting to hurt Wilson more than he had to, but the oncologist didn't complain once, didn't so much as whimper. Quite the contrary; he moaned in delight. The diagnostician began to thrust deeper until his entire length was involved. He shifted his weight and angle slightly and made contact with the younger man's prostate. Wilson gasped and his muscles spasmed in response. As House continued he began to speed up. He found himself groaning as the pressure and pleasure increased. Wilson joined him, moving his body in rhythm with the thrusts. _

_House approached climax, murmuring Wilson's name. Seconds before he climaxed Wilson did. The diagnostician exploded into his best friend. When he withdrew some of his semen came out with him. He rolled onto his back on the bed, riding the waves of his orgasm, grinning like a fool. After a few minutes of lying side by side, not touching, House rose from the bed and hobbled to his bathroom. He returned with two warm, damp cloths and set to work tenderly cleaning Wilson's body. After that he cleaned himself and threw the cloths to the floor. He pulled a comforter over the both of them._

_"I…I should go…," Wilson whispered after a while of just lying there with House, making to leave the bed but his best friend wrapped a muscular arm around him to stop him, and began to pull him closer._

_"Stay," House ordered softly, sleepily, wrapping his arms around the younger man and cuddling him. Wilson smirked. He had never thought the older man would be much of a cuddler. He began to drift off to sleep. His last sensation was that of a hand caressing his hair…_

_. _Wilson woke suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. His dream was still in head, except it wasn't a dream. It was a memory, as clear as when it actually had occurred. He lifted his hands to rub his eyes and found that his face was covered in tears. House had been right; the oncologist hadn't been so drunk as to be out of control of what had happened that night. He remembered every moment, every detail, every sensation. He remembered how tender the diagnostician had been with him.

"I don't want to be gay," he whispered to himself miserably.

The door bell rang. He sighed and looked to the clock on the bedside table. It was only eight-thirty-two p.m. He felt like he'd slept all evening. The door bell rang again. Pushing back the covers he climbed out of bed, grabbed his robe from the end of the bed and put it on as he hurried out of the bedroom and towards the door.

"I'm coming!" he called, tying the belt just before unlocking the front door and opening it. Standing in the corridor was Sam. She looked at him curiously and while she wasn't smiling at him she wasn't frowning either. Wilson had mixed emotions over seeing her. He'd completely forgotten that he had called her earlier that day about having dinner. Of course, she hadn't returned his call, either.

"Hi," he said with a smile. "Come in."

Sam entered, walking past him into the foyer. Wilson shut the door again and took her coat as she took it off. He promptly hung it for her.

"I didn't get your phone call until a few minutes ago," she told him, finally smiling. "I decided to drop by rather than call."

Wilson nodded, his eyes scoping out the curves of her body of her breasts, her lips, the exact shade of blue in her eyes. The thought that they weren't as amazing as House's crossed his mind and he banished it as quickly as he could. He was not going to think about him. She was there. Feminine, soft, beautiful. He needed her. That was the overwhelming urge in him. He need her body, now.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sam asked warily. "Is there something wrong, James?"

He didn't answer but moved to her, drawing her into his arms and kissing her hard, desperately on the mouth. It wasn't the desperation of passion but of raw, angry, needy, animal-like arousal. She kissed back but had a frown on her brow. When she tried to pull back the oncologist grabbed her forearms and squeezed hard enough to bruise to keep her from moving away.

"I have to have you!" he growled against her mouth, then biting her lip until he tasted blood. She whimpered and tried to turn her face away from him.

"James," she managed to utter, "You're hurting me!"

Not able to comprehend what she said he backed her into the living room, towards the sofa. He pushed her down onto it, holding her down with his full weight. He didn't see the fear in her eyes or her struggle to push him away. He bit her tongue and then began to run his mouth down her neck until he reached her shoulder where he sucked and bit her again. He was like a wild, mindless beast, running on pure instinct. His only thought was that he wanted her as a man wants his woman; that he would make her scream and beg for more.

"Stop it!" Sam cried out, "James, what the fuck are you doing! Let me go!"

"I need you, Sam, so badly," he told her gruffly. "Don't fight! Just let me have you!" He literally tore at her blouse to get it off. Buttons popped and seams pulled out as her as he ripped it off and then started at her bra.

"Please stop!" she screamed. He brought one of his hands up to cover her mouth. She took that opportunity to free her hand and punch the side of his head as hard as she could while chomping down on his hand. He recoiled back in surprise and pain. She used all of her weight to push him off onto the floor. Grabbing the remnants of her blouse she ran for the door.

Wilson snapped out of whatever fit he had been in and saw her running in terror. Oh god! What had he done! What the _fuck_ was the matter with him? He went after her.

"Sam!" he said, begging, "Come back, please! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry—I don't know what happened!" He reached to grab her hand.

"Don't _touch_ me!" she hissed, tears running down her face. "I don't fucking _know_ you!" She grabbed the door knob, then realized that the door had been locked after she had come in. She began to sob, her hands fumbling with the locks.

Wilson recoiled, not touching her. He ran his bleeding hand through his hair, filled with self-loathing.

"Please," he pled, "I promise not to hurt you again! Give me a chance to explain-!"

She got the door open and then paused long enough to say, "I won't file charges, James, but you need to get some fucking help! Don't ever come near me again!" She bolted out the door, slamming it behind her. Wilson thought of going after her and then stopped himself, just standing and staring at the door for several long minutes. What the fuck had just happened? What was wrong with him? How could he have done those things to her?

"_I'm fucking insane!"_ He screamed, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling. He noticed for the first time that his hand hurt like hell and was bleeding, dripping onto the hardwood floor. He went to his bathroom and ran warm water over his hand. He cleaned the bite wounds like an automaton; he suddenly felt very numb. After dressing it lightly he walked into his bedroom but didn't make it to his bed before collapsing to the floor, half-laying, half-sitting there unable to move. He had just thrown away his second chance.

_I just about raped her! What kind of monster am I? Why did I do that?_

"Because you wanted to prove that you're not gay," he mumbled miserably aloud and then held his head in his hands_. "But you_ _are."_

########## ########## ############ ############ ############## ############ ############

Detectives Richard 'Dick' Avery and Henry 'Hank' Tsui sat alone at two different tables, watching the scene at the nightclub. They were dressed for clubbing Tsui being a little more 'macho', as Warren put it, than Avery. They nursed drinks and scoped the meat factory around them. They were wired and could communicate with each other should it be necessary to do so. Both of them had studied the composite drawing and verbal description of their suspect 'Davin'. Spectra staff had told Warren and Levison that Davin was a regular and would almost certainly show himself that evening, as he usually did on the weekends. So far they hadn't spotted anyone that fit both the drawing and their description in any way and they had been sitting there for an hour; before that Avery had won the coin toss and got to sit at the bar for an hour while Tsui had to mingle on the dance floor.

Both heterosexual men felt extremely out of place and uncomfortable in a 'world' that was so unfamiliar to them. There were unspoken rules of interaction; body language and eye contact appeared to be important modes of communication, especially on the dance floor. It was possible that was due to the booming music that made verbal communication sketchy at best. A lot of the communication, however, wasn't all that much different from what the detectives had encountered in 'straight' clubs. Tsui completed his circuit around the undulating mass of bodies and made his way to a quieter corner, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

"Any sign?" Tsui said, directing his voice towards his chest.

"None," Avery answered, "but I've been slipped two phone numbers."

"Well these guys know a slut when they see one," Tsui said, unable to restrain a smile.

"Hey," Avery retorted, "that's _Mister_ Slut to you. I don't think he's gonna show. He probably figures it's too hot around here to show his face. I've overheard several conversations that were referring to what happened to House. Amazing how word travels so quickly."

Tsui was about to reply when he was approached by another Asian, slightly older that him, asking him if he wanted to dance. Over his hidden earpiece he could hear his partner making kissy noises and chuckling.

"Say yes, Hank," Avery said. "From over here he looks kind of cute!"

Unable to answer the Chinese-American detective selected choice words that he would share as soon as he could.

"Why not?" Tsui said stiffly, earning another chuckle from his partner. When he dragged a little behind his dance partner Tsui hissed, "Fuck off!"

"Looks like your prospects for that are better than mine," he heard Avery crow in his ear.

Avery sat at his table, grinning as he watched Tsui dance, not touching, mind you, with the other guy. He tried to catch his partner's gaze but the Asian detective was avoiding him like the plague. The white detective scanned the club when his eyes stopped on a table across the dance floor. An athletic looking blond was rising from his seat as was a tall sandy-haired man. He fit the description almost perfectly. How had he missed him in the two hours that he'd been staked-out there? What—was the guy a chameleon or something, with the ability to make himself virtually invisible while he was on the prowl?

"Hank!" Avery said urgently as the man he suspected was Davin and the taller man headed for the exit together, their hands laced together with their fingers. "I've spotted our guy and he's leaving with someone right now! Kiss your date goodnight and meet me out at the car a.s.a.p.!"

Avery heard noise come over his earpiece but didn't pay any attention. He immediately rose from his table and headed for the exit, navigating through the bodies and focusing to keep a visual on their suspect. He was still a distance from the exit when Davin and his 'date' passed through. The detective didn't waste time to see if his partner was on his way out as well. He finally made it to the door and jogged out into the dark evening, towards the parking lot. There were a stream of cars coming and going and too many people milling around for his to maintain a sight line with Davin.

Reaching the parking lot, Avery's eyes scanned for any sign of the athletic blond male amidst the cars.

"Avery!" Tsui said over his earphone. "Do you have a fix on him?"

"Shit!" he replied in frustration. "I think I lost him! I think I lost the bastard—wait! I got him! Black Porsche!" He rocketed to his late model Crown Vic and jumped into the driver's seat just as Tsui reached the parking lot. Avery started the car and drove to meet him. Tsui jumped in and the car was speeding away before his ass hit the passenger's seat. The Porsche turned out of the lot into traffic and disappeared from sight. Avery swerved to miss a collision with an Audi and cranked a left turn, narrowly getting hit by a truck as he did. The truck's horn sounded, completely unnoticed by Avery. The Porsche was about three-quarters of a block ahead of them, weaving easily around slower moving traffic. The detective was doing a pretty good job of keeping up while trying not to draw undue attention to himself in the process. In spite of that the Porsche was shaking them; Crown Victoria's were not as maneuverable as the sports car they followed.

Tsui was radioing in their status to dispatch while keeping an eye on the Porsche.

"Speed up," the Asian detective told the driver impatiently. "We're following too far behind and we're gonna lose him!"

"Don't get your panties in a knot," Avery told him, frowning. "I still see him. Damned traffic! Doesn't anybody go home to their families anymore?"

The detectives were gaining ground but a major intersection loomed up ahead with a stale green light going their way.

"We're not going to make the fuckin' light, Dick!" Tsui nearly shouted. "Who the fuck names their kid Dick, anyway?"

"Shut up!" Avery told him with a quick glare that said, 'Don't fuck with my name now, asshole' or something of the like. Sure enough, just as the Porsche entered the intersection the light turned amber and was a solid red before the Crown Vic was anywhere near the intersection. For a second Avery considered turning on his lights but decided it was pointless. Even if traffic did clear quickly enough for them to keep their sights on Davin's vehicle, the flashing red and blue would tip him off to their presence. He hit the brakes and came to a hard stop at the red light.

Tsui opened his mouth to say something but Avery held his hand up to silence him.

"Don't even fucking say it!"

"You lost the motherfucker!" his partner said anyway. Picking up the mike to the radio to call it in to dispatch. "Way to go, Dipshit!"

"If you don't shut up the ER doc will be trying to extract that mike from your intestines, I swear to God!" Avery warned him. He was angry enough as it was, he didn't need his egotistical partner to rub it in. Once Tsui was done with Dispatch he said to him, "At least we know he drives a black Porsche and I got the first three letters of his plate—K-F-N. Maybe DMV will be able to provide us with a name or two and addresses."

Tsui didn't respond immediately; he was too pissed off to trust himself to speak. Warren and Levison would be none too pleased about this. He took a few deep breaths before saying bitingly, "Let's just hope we won't have to tell that to Davin's date's family when they have to come in to the morgue in the middle of the night to identify him!"


	10. Chapter 10

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **I received a lot of comments about Wilson's near rape of Sam. Let me just say that I would never write anything that had him being so evil as to actually go through with a rape. If I had allowed things to progress further, if Sam had been unable to get away, Wilson would have stopped himself. Even extreme stress cannot make someone do something as diametrically opposed to who they are as rape is to Wilson. Not unless he became completely psychotic, which he obviously didn't.

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Ten**

When House awoke he found that he wasn't alone. James Wilson sat reclined in the recliner next to his bed, his head lolled to the side, his eyes closed and his mouth slack. Drool dripped slowly from his mouth onto his shoulder and his breathing was slow, deep and regular. The diagnostician fleetingly wondered if he had been given the same kind of shot Foreman had given him. Aside from that, all he could do was smile slightly and sigh in relief. His best friend had returned after all. He hadn't completely alienated him.

He would never mention that night again. They would forget all about this ridiculous catastrophe and move on like nothing had been said and done. House would wait for the inevitable break up between Wilson and Sam and then he would have Wilson back. They'd be sparring again, having lunch together again, and getting sick and drunk on pizza and beer again in no time. He was stupid to have reacted the way he did. The diagnostician would never risk losing his best friend again.

Yes, that did mean that he would never be more than friends with the oncologist. He would have to overcome his desire for the man, have to stomach every woman Wilson brought home to fuck, have to be happy with the close but platonic relationship they had. It would be hard—excruciatingly so sometimes—but he could do it. Keeping Wilson in his life was worth it. It was going to be okay—it had to be.

Now all he had to do was get his brain working properly again. Speech therapy would help, but there was no guarantee that he would fully recover from the effects of the anoxia. Since he could see, the visual centers of his brain hadn't been too badly damaged. There was a very good chance that his lack of visual-motor coordination would improve on its own over the next few days to weeks. He had no memory of the evening of his attack, and it was possible that it would never return, but he didn't seem to be suffering any short-term memory loss, which was an excellent sign. His higher faculties seemed to be unimpaired—at least, he didn't think there was anything wrong with his reasoning, but then again, would he be able to recognize any impairment if there was any? If his movement and coordination centers weren't too badly damaged, he would consider this experience an unfortunate but not irreparable mistake and move on. He didn't like dealing with ifs, though. Ifs had a tendency of kicking him in the ass.

House noticed movement outside the door and looked up. Standing outside of his room, looking in, was his boss. Lisa Cuddy simply stared in his direction. With most of the blinds drawn and the lights turned off the room was darker than the corridor outside and it appeared that she wasn't able to see that he was awake. Her face was pensive and sad. Her grey-blue eyes were unreadable. He wasn't certain if he wanted her to know that he was awake; he didn't know how much she knew about what had happened to him and why. Wilson wasn't the only one he had kept his bisexuality from.

She made her decision and quietly slid the door open, walking into the room and sliding it shut again behind her. She looked over at the sleeping oncologist and smirked, shaking her head before looking back at House. By this time her eyes had adjusted to the lower light and she noticed the diagnostician staring at her in silence.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked him in a whisper, frowning slightly but with amusement in her eyes.

"How long…stood…door?" House replied, and then sighed at his speech. He couldn't help but worry that he may never speak normally again, but at least what he had said made a modicum of sense, this time.

"About two minutes," she answered with a half-smile.

"Me…me…also."

If she was the least bit concerned about his speech deficit, she didn't show it. She wasn't as good an actor as she liked to think she was, so perhaps she knew something about his brain injury that he didn't yet. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he feared.

"Time?" He asked, feeling completely disoriented.

"Just after one p.m.," she told him. "Youv'e been out for nearly a day. That sedative Foreman gave you hit you hard…I suspect your body took the opportunity to do a little mending and catch up. Foreman said you wouldn't talk to him earlier. Why not?"

House shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "No feel…to…." He concentrated hard to make the right words fit together but it was exhausting. "Boring."

"You're trying to tell me that you didn't want to talk to him because he's boring?" the Dean of Medicine asked dubiously. "Try again, House."

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Know…you how…much?"

Cuddy cocked her head slightly as she tried to interpret what it was he was asking. "Are you asking me if I know something? About, what?"

Closing his eyes a moment and taking a deep breath to control his frustration, he fought to find the words. "Attack. How…why…details."

A sad look came to her eyes and she looked away briefly. House had a feeling she knew about as much as Wilson did by her reaction to his question. He didn't feel ashamed but he did feel…naked, and not the good-kind of naked either.

"Cuddy?" he prompted impatiently. She looked back at him reluctantly and nodded.

"I know what Wilson and the police have told me," the Dean of Medicine admitted.

"So…you…know?"

"That you were attacked by a male lover?" she said, throwing it out there. "Yes, that did come out."

House looked away for a moment, not knowing how to proceed from there. He and Cuddy had burned a lot of bridges but he still didn't want to lose what little respect she still had for him over this. He noticed that Wilson had shifted his position in the chair and was beginning to wake up.

He was startled when he felt her touch his hand, which was still bound to the bed as were his other three appendages. His sparkling blue eyes looked up at her shyly.

"I don't care, you know," she told him, smiling slightly. "It shocked the hell out of me at first. I thought it was some kind of tasteless joke. Then I was annoyed that you'd never said anything about being bisexual before. After that, I realized that I really shouldn't have been surprised. You're a sexual opportunist—a take-it-wherever-you-can-get-it kind of guy."

Smirking at that he responded, "Blushing."

"House, you couldn't blush if your life depended on it," she told him sarcastically.

"True," he agreed with a nod, still smirking at her. He was relieved by her reaction. She could have held her knowledge of his sexual orientation over his head as a bargaining chip or humiliated him in retaliation for the way he had humiliated her from the mezzanine overlooking the hospital lobby almost a year ago. Technically Cuddy still could, but he doubted she would now.

"What I'm more concerned about," the Dean of Medicine told him somberly, "is the amount you drank that night. You and I both know that part of your contract with the board was that you wouldn't use any intoxicating substances anymore, including alcohol, and we both know that I was overlooking the odd glass of wine or beer from time to time because I didn't believe alcohol was ever really the problem Vicodin was for you. Your B.A.C. was nearly point-two-o. How often has that kind of binging been taking place and for how long?"

"Why?" the diagnostician asked suspiciously, wondering where she was going with this. Yeah he'd been drinking heavier lately—he'd also been under quite a bit of stress, in particular with the invasion of Sam, and it helped dull the pain in his leg which had been getting increasingly worse lately. Ibuprofen was useless against the pain; it didn't have any effect on it anymore. Booze was better than returning to Vicodin in his book.

Cuddy sighed. "I know what you're thinking. You think I'm trying to trap you and get you into trouble with the board, right? Well, I'm not. I do have to look out for the reputation of this hospital and the safety of the patients you treat—but not's not why. I'm asking because…because I care about you and I'm concerned."

"Me, too," Wilson said sleepily from the recliner, exposing the fact that he was awake now and listening in. He brought the recliner up so that he was sitting upright and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"Back…sleep…idiot," House said, scowling at the eavesdropper. "Snoop."

"Jerk," Wilson returned without skipping a beat. "I'm not a snoop. If you two insist on carrying on a conversation while I'm in the room then expect me to listen. Quit deflecting and answer her questions."

"Traitor," House shot almost immediately, not having to concentrate too long on that one.

"Gimp!" Wilson retaliated. This was their pitching and wooing, House realized. If only the oncologist could acknowledge that….

"Quit it!" Cuddy told both men, appearing annoyed. "House…how bad _has_ your drinking gotten? Are you substituting alcohol for Vicodin? Has this become another addiction?"

He didn't quite know how to answer that. It was a loaded question. If he said no, then she would keep riddling him with questions. If he said yes, then he'd find himself back in rehab as an alcoholic this time. The truth was both—the alcohol he drank had a numbing effect on his leg—not as well as Vicodin but a hell of a lot better than ibuprofen. If he was honest with himself, he liked the way the alcohol numbed his emotional pain like Vicodin had, but he wasn't ready to be honest about that yet. Was the alcohol an addiction? No, not yet. There was the possibility of it becoming a problem if he didn't ease off on it but he wasn't dependant on it yet.

"No," he answered. It was the easiest answer to give, especially since explaining things was a lot more difficult presently than it usually was.

"So why then?" she pursued as he knew she would. "There's got to be a reason. People don't get stinking drunk when they're not supposed to be drinking at all for no reason."

House could feel Wilson's eyes boring into him and he felt extremely uncomfortable telling the truth in front of him. Certainly part of the reason he had been drinking more recently was to deal with the pain and frustration of watching Wilson carry on with Sam. It wasn't easy to hear the man he was in love with fucking the harpy in the next room while the diagnostician was trying to sleep. He'd tried to imagine that Wilson's moans were due to House making love to him, but every time the blonde bitch would cry out in the throes of passion his fantasy was ruined and all he was left with was the cold, hard truth. So instead of staying home, sober and awake, to listen in to their nightly romps in the hay, he went out, got blissfully loaded and crawled home to pass out in his bed and not have to hear anything until he came to in the morning. Then he had to deal with morning calisthenics from time to time; the drunker he was the night before, the more likely he was to sleep past that unpleasantness as well.

He knew that avoiding the question would only make things worse; he felt trapped.

" Avoid…home," he murmured, looking at the fingerprints on the glass door. "Drunk…not…face…truth."

"What truth?" Cuddy asked gently.

_Why can't she just drop the subject_? he wondered. He didn't have to come up with another answer, however. Wilson spoke before he could.

"You've been getting drunk so you don't have to face my relationship with Sam, right?"

His tone wasn't harsh, like the diagnostian expected it to be. That lit his curiosity. Usually whenever he brought up anything having to do with Wilson and the harpy the oncologist became immediately defensive and angry. Why the change in attitude now?

House didn't reply, unsure of what to say that wouldn't set off a potential powder keg.

"Cuddy," Wilson said quietly to her. "Would you mind leaving House and I alone for a while?"

The Dean of Medicine looked like she was going to protest but then stopped herself. She nodded reluctantly, looking back and forth between the men before leaving the room and walking away. Both men were quiet for a minute or two after she left. House was waiting for Wilson to say what was on his mind; after all, he was the one that sent Cuddy away.

The oncologist broke the uneasy silence. "House, I…I'm sorry for running out of here like a little girl yesterday afternoon. I don't know what the fuck has gotten into me lately. Wait, that's not true. I do know. We both do."

House didn't respond but remained looking at him and listening in silence.

"I've screwed up big time, haven't I?" the younger man asked rhetorically. "You're right. You've been right the whole time. God, I hate it when you're right! And get that smug smirk off of your face!"

The diagnostician put on his best 'Who, me?' look but couldn't hold back the self-satisfied grin for long. He wasn't certain exactly what it was that Wilson was referring to but anytime the other man was forced to admit that he had been wrong and House had been right was an excuse to rub it in. He used to feel guilty about it (a tiny bit anyway) but lately Wilson's perpetual stubbornness and sanctimony had driven any sign of empathy away.

"Explain," House insisted, wanting to know exactly what he was referring to. He swallowed hard, anxious to know if it was about Sam being a mistake or that the oncologist had been running away from who he really was.

Wilson sighed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He looked terrible; House knew that look. His friend had been through the emotional ringer and again the diagnostician felt a pang of guilt.

"Sam and I…we're through," the younger man admitted quietly. "I think it has something to do with my nearly raping her last night."

House was instantly horrified. He frowned in deep concern and tried to reach out to Wilson only to be reminded that he was still bound. He growled in frustration. Seeing this, Wilson undid the restraints on House's hands and feet.

"Fuck! Why?" the older man demanded.

Shame quickly took over every part of the oncologist. "I flipped, I guess. I _didn't_ rape her, I don't think I would have been able to go through with it…but I came close. House, since your attack, I've gone nuts over trying to deny…to deny the truth about how I feel for you. How I've been feeling for years. I was trying to prove to myself that I wasn't…gay."

House said nothing. He couldn't believe that Wilson was actually talking about this. He had never thought the younger man would ever reach the point where he could. He had to fight back a sudden rush of hope, reminding himself that allowing himself to hope for something almost always led to crushing disappointment.

"Having it revealed to me that…that our night together wasn't just a drunken mistake, that you are actually bisexual and you consciously wanted it…I had to face how I really felt about that night," Wilson admitted. "I have to confess something to you."

"Go," House responded, nodding, telling him to say it. _Say it, Jimmy_!

It took a few moments for Wilson to summon up the courage to do so. "You weren't the first man I ever slept with. There was another…a mentor. It was just once, while Sam and I were still married. I've been lost in denial for so long. House, I reveled in every moment you and I were having sex. I still remember every detail. You were right…I wasn't nearly as drunk as I convinced myself I was."

House wished he could express himself properly instead of only being able to throw out disjointed words that he had to search for first. "For…me, not…sex…only. Love."

It was an awkward statement but his best friend seemed to understand what he meant and smiled softly. "It wasn't just sex for me either. I think that's why I tried to deny it even happened. I've got to just say it! I have to quit avoiding it…House, I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for years. I've been pushing you away in favor of Sam because she was my last chance at being 'normal' and pleasing my parents and being who I'm _supposed_ to be. But I'm _not_ that person. I'm not certain who or what the hell I am…I just know that I love you and I want you. If you can't forgive me, I'll understand, but-."

Wilson didn't get a chance to finish his statement. House reached out and grabbed the other man by the arm, yanking him out of his seat and pulling him nearly on top of him. He grabbed the back of the oncologist's neck and pulled his face in to a fervent, hungry, passionate kiss. Wilson was at first surprised, having been caught off guard but recovered very quickly, returning the kiss just as passionately.

The younger man tasted incredible, better than the diagnostician remembered. Feeling his lips against his own, House wanted to devour him, mind, body and soul. He had waited for so long to hear Wilson say those words to him that he had given up hope on them ever being said and now, having heard them with his own ears, he wanted nothing more than to make love to him and hold him in his arms with the intention of never letting him go again. When they parted for breath, House kept their foreheads touching, his one hand still at the base of his best friend's head while his other hand cradled his jaw and caressed his cheek with his thumb. They stared deeply into each other's eyes and panted lightly.

"Love…" House breathed, "…you."

A smile appeared on the younger man's face. "I love you, too," he murmured.

Someone cleared her throat to grab their attention. Neither man had heard someone enter the room; both turned their heads quickly in the direction of the door. A woman who House couldn't remember ever having seen before in his life stood there, frowning ever so slightly and looking very serious. Her gaze was directed at Wilson; he heard the oncologist's breath catch and then a small groan leave his throat. The oncologist slowly pulled away from his friend, and House was not only puzzled but concerned when he saw the look of dread on Wilson's face.

"What?" the older man demanded, his glare moving back and forth between the stranger and his friend. "Tell…me!"

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the woman said and House could tell that she was clearly lying. "I'm disappointed, Dr. Wilson. I was actually convinced you were telling me the truth." She directed herself to the diagnostician. "Dr. House, I'm Detective Anne Levison with the Mercer County Sherriff's department. I'm one of the investigator's of your attack. I need to talk to you about what happened."

House turned to look at Wilson questioningly.

"House," Wilson began but he wasn't allowed to say anything more.

"Dr. Wilson and I have already spoken several times," Levison spoke up. "Unfortunately, it's become clearly obvious that he hasn't been honest with me. I'm hoping that you can clear things up."

The diagnostician shook his head his frown deepening. "How?" he demanded.

"Listen," Wilson spoke up. "You don't understand. I was telling you the truth at the time. What you just walked in on is something new. It's a long story-."

"I'm not interested in hearing anything more from you Dr. Wilson," the detective told him bluntly. "I have to interview the victim and then perhaps I'll be of the mind to listen to your excuses."

House scowled at her, angered by the disdain she was showing his best friend. He sensed that something wasn't right but he had no idea what it was.

"Wilson…what?" he demanded. "Tell…you…her…happened…what?"

"Calm down," Wilson told him. "It's alright, House. There's been a huge misunderstanding between the police and me. They think that I-."

"That's enough, Doctor!" Levison cut him off sharply. "I need to question Dr. House before you can influence any of his answers. Please step outside while I take his statement."

"No!" House objected angrily. "Wilson…stay…now." He turned to Levison. "Ask…he…stays."

"I'm afraid not," she insisted firmly. "I know you trust Dr. Wilson, but until he's been eliminated as a suspect I need to speak with you alone."

The diagnostician couldn't believe what he had just heard her say. Wilson, a suspect? Was she insane? "Wilson…no. Not. Not…him! Never!" He was becoming quite agitated as his heart rate and respiration attested. Wilson apparently didn't like what he saw happening on the monitors.

"House!" Wilson said to him seriously. "You need to relax. You're vitals are not looking good. It's alright…I have nothing to hide and neither do you. Just answer her honestly and everything will be fine." The oncologist glowered at the detective as he rose to his full height. "I'll go. Just remember, he's not physically strong—don't push him or I'll have security remove you. He's suffering a speech deficit as a result of brain injury caused by the lack of oxygen to his brain from the strangulation. He's having difficulty finding the appropriate words to express what he's thinking. It takes him time to find them and once he does he has difficulty stringing them together into a cogent sentence." Wilson made to leave but House grabbed his hand tightly and refused to let go.

"No!...Stay!"

"House, she's right," the younger man told him with a weak smile. "I'm not going far. It's okay." He gently pried the diagnostician's grip from his hand and then leaned in to gently kiss his cheek before stepping outside the room and walking away.

Infuriated with the stranger standing in front of him, the older man wanted to tell her to fuck off, but by the time he was able to find the words and say them, the moment was gone.

"What?" he snarled at her, his icy blue eyes blazing. "Wilson…never…hurt!"

"That's what I'm trying to determine, Dr. House," Levison told him calmly, trying to defuse the powder keg of a situation. "You need to understand something before I ask you any questions. I'm really on _your_ side. I know it might not seem like that to you, but it's true. My sole interest is in finding out who nearly killed you and to make certain that something like this never happens to you or anyone else again. Until I have concrete evidence to tell me otherwise, everybody is a suspect, including Dr. Wilson. I am unapologetic about that. Dr. Wilson has given us some very questionable and contradicting statements about his relationship with you and that has led my partner and I to question whether or not he's been telling us the truth.

"Dr. Wilson told us that there was absolutely no sexual relationship between the two of you," she continued without skipping a beat. "He's insisted that several times despite the fact that witnesses have told us otherwise. Then I walk in here today and find the two of you involved in a very passionate kiss. Perhaps you can appreciate why I have my doubts about his honesty. Understand, Dr. House: the vast majority of serious assaults and homicides are committed by one domestic partner to the other; spouses and lovers are always considered prime suspects until alibis check out and evidence points us in a different direction. That's why I need to speak with you alone, so that you feel free to say anything you need to without fear of retribution and without your testimony being tainted in any way by _anyone _else. This entire time I have been defending your friend to my partner and our superiors, who are convinced he has something to do with the attack on you, because I believed he was telling me the truth as he saw it. Now I have my doubts. I need you to tell me the truth about everything you know and can remember. I'm not in the business of arresting innocent people."

House glared at her long and hard, appraising what he saw and what he had heard, looking for signs that would lead him to distrust her. He had to admit to himself that he didn't see any. However, that didn't mean much. Some people were master liars. He knew—he was one of them when he needed to be.

"Ask," he told her quietly, finding himself getting tired again.

She sat down in the recliner and pulled out her digital recorder. "Mind if I record our talk? I'm not good at short hand."

The diagnostician nodded once.

Levison recorded the usual preliminary information and then began.

"Please state your name for the record," Levison told him.

"House," he said slowly. "Gregory…Doctor."

"Thank you," she said with a small genuine smile. "Dr. House, I want you to know that anything you say here will be kept confidential—only those members of law enforcement and the legal system directly involved in this investigation will be privy to this interview. You can be completely honest with me without being afraid that anyone else will find out what you've said…including Dr. Wilson. Do you understand?"

Rolling his eyes in frustration, House gave her a curt nod and muttered. "Yes."

The interview lasted about twenty minutes. House was too tired to go on any longer and Levison appeared to be satisfied with what she had. As she rose from the recliner to leave she unexpectedly took House's hand and squeezed it once quickly, startling him at first.

"Thank you for helping me to understand," she told him. "If you can recall anything more, just let your nurse know. I've left my card with the unit desk and they can contact me for you. I'll let you know if or when we make an arrest."

The detective left and a few minutes later Wilson reappeared with a quizzical expression on his face.

"What did you say to her?" the oncologist asked him, puzzled. "She just about gave me a hug before she left!"

"Tell…later. You…come…now." House said with a crooked grin. He signaled with his finger for the younger man to come closer. A suspicious smile crossed the younger man's face as he sat down on the edge of the older man's bed. House signaled him closer. Wilson complied and House grabbed the back of his neck and drew him into a tender kiss. His tongue gained easy access to his best friend's mouth and explored every bit of it, gently dancing with its mate. Wilson's tongue then took over in the diagnostician's mouth. As they kissed they stared into each other's eyes, getting lost in each other. It was the most incredible kiss House had ever experienced; he poured every ounce of himself into it. It wasn't easy for him to say the words just anytime he wanted, but he would make sure that Wilson had no doubt just how much he loved him.

Levison was buckling her seat belt when her cell phone rang. She checked the caller I.D. before answering.

"What's up, Toby?"

Detective Warren's voice was grim. "Our guy struck again, just like we were afraid he would, Annie. Only this time the vic wasn't as lucky as House."

The female detective closed her eyes and pounded the steering when in anger. "Goddamnit to Hell!"

Warren waited in silence to give her a moment to pull herself together before giving her the address of the crime scene. Then he asked, "What did House have to say?"

"He doesn't remember a damned thing!" she told him, her voice quavering a little with rage. "Retrograde amnesia 1, a common side effect of the brain damage he's suffered as a result of the strangulation. I'll tell you more when I get there."

She hung up and shoved her phone back into her purse before starting her car. If the vic turned out to be the same guy Avery and Tsui saw leaving with Davin from The Spectra Lounge last night, they could cross James Wilson's name off of their list for good. She started the car, listening to the engine roar to life before nearly flying out of the PPTH parking lot like a bat out of hell.

1 Retrograde Amnesia: where the victim can remember events that occurred after the trauma but cannot recall events preceding the trauma. (from )


	11. Chapter 11

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: A little heat and comic relief makes up for this chapter being shorter than usual!**

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Eleven**

The thirty-eight year old man's body had been washed down, with the ligature…a blue necktie—still wrapped and knotted around his neck. His body then had been dragged from the bedroom across the carpeted floor to the kitchen where he had been lifted and lain, hands and feet bound together-hog-tied-with butcher's twine, on the island face up post-mortem. An apple, likely one from a fruit bowl resting across the room on a kitchen counter, had been pushed into the victim's mouth. The victim's clothing had been neatly folded and placed in a pile on the coffee table in the living room. The visible presence of semen around the sandy-haired man's anus as well as tearing and bruising plus defensive wounds on his hands and arms and bloody tissue under his manicured nails indicated that he had been raped prior to his death.

Detectives Warren and Levison were the third and fourth officers on the scene, preceded only by the pair of uniforms that had been called by the neighbor in the apartment next door to the vic's about screaming coming from there just a handful of minutes before the call.

Officers Brown and Yates had responded to the complaint, finding the victim's front door left ajar. After there had been no response from anyone in the apartment to the officers' calls, the Uniforms entered and a quick search of the one bedroom luxury apartment had resulted in their discovery of the body. Immediately they had sealed off the apartment and called the apparent homicide in to dispatch.

Shortly after the senior detectives had arrived to take over command of the scene Avery and Tsui had arrived, followed closely by Forensics, another squad car and an ambulance. No one was allowed to touch the body until the coroner arrived, whom they were still waiting for. Tsui and Avery were able to confirm that the vic was the same guy who had left The Spectra Lounge with Davin the night before. Avery was uncharacteristically quiet. He looked visibly sickened.

Levison had walked around the body several times, looking for clues without making contact with it.

"Looks like Davin had more opportunity this time to stage things," she commented, forcing herself to remain detached from the emotional horror that such a scene could evoke. She was fairly adept at it now, but her early days in Major Crimes had been hard ones. "M.O. looks the same as with House: Erotic asphyxiation causing death, the use of a tie as the ligature, and the pile of clothes on the coffee table. House was lucky. Someone or something must have spooked Davin before he had a chance to ascertain House's death, wash the body down and pose it. Otherwise, we may have encountered the same macabre tableau in the diagnostician's case as well. Ritualized behavior involved here. Guess it wasn't Davin having a bad day when it came to House after all."

"Serial killer?" Tsui asked, frowning in disgust.

"Usually that term is used with three or more murders—we only know of two so far," Warren said, shrugging, "but it's looking like our Casanova certainly wants to be a member of that particular club."

"We don't know for certain there has only been two of these kind of deaths," Tsui pointed out. "Dick and I checked out the numbers we got from the Porsche's licence plate before we lost them last night. The plate was definitely New Jersey and we were able to get two hits using what we know—the numbers, the kind and color of car and the name Davin—one belonged to a Mr. Davin Cates, seventy-five, of Camden and the other to Mr. Garrett Davin, African-American, fifty-eight of Newark. Either our suspect isn't really named Davin or that Porsche doesn't belong to him and there haven't been any reported thefts of a black Porsche in New Jersey over the past two weeks. We're still waiting for data back from Pennsylvania, New York and Delaware. If Davin relocated recently to New Jersey, he may have left behind him a vic or twelve behind him."

"AFIS didn't come back with a match," Levison added, sighing. "Neither did a search of any of the DNA data banks around the country. Still haven't received any news back from DHS, either. So either he got a taste with House and decided to try again and have fun with it or he's been really careful not to leave a trail. We'll see what Forensics is able to find on this one. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Where's that damned coroner?" Warren demanded crankily.

"Got a wallet," Avery said as he entered the kitchen carrying it with a gloved hand. "In the pants on the coffee table." He opened the wallet and pulled out a driver's license. It belonged to the vic. "Dr. Charles Klein, of this address. Born October 7, 1968. Another doctor."

"Look around for a hospital ID or anything else you can find relating to whether he's an M.D. and if so, which hospital or clinic he's associated with," Warren told him, taking the wallet from the junior detective with his own gloved hand. Avery nodded and left to take a look around. Warren began to search through the wallet himself. "Ah, here we go. Wallet copy of his medical license…and his business card. Well, I'll be damned, Annie!"

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with the vic?" Levison responded with a smirk.

The older detective glowered at her, turning the card so she could see it. "Dr. Klein here worked as a Cardiologist at none other than Princeton-Plainsboro."

The female detective shook her head in amazement and began to smile. "What a coincidence," she said sarcastically. "I wonder if Davin knew that. Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Toby?"

"That perhaps our vics were acquainted with Davin before they met at the club?" he asked.

"That," she agreed, "or he's been picking them out where they work before he approaches them at The Spectra Lounge. If that's the case, then he must spend more than just a little bit of time at or near the hospital; he might be an employee himself. I wish Dr. House could remember what happened. At least we've got a second place to stakeout now. Chances are once news of this one reaches the press, he may not use that particular location to hook up with his next victim, whether they know each other or not. If he's choosing them at the hospital—if this isn't all a big coincidence—we may be able to watch for and nab him there."

"Assuming there's another gay or bi doctor at that hospital," Tsui agreed with a nod.

"They should rename that place Brokeback Hospital," Warren muttered under his breath. Levison glared at her partner.

"You're ignorant, you know that Toby?" she told him in disgust, hands on her hips.

"And straight," he responded cheekily. "Don't forget that, either."

Levison rolled her eyes and sighed. "There is definitely at least one more gay or bi doctor in that hospital," she told the two detectives with her.

That earned her a curious look from both.

"I walked in on House and Dr. Wilson kissing and declaring their love for each other earlier," Levison informed them. "House claims that this is something new and that up to today there hasn't been anything between them but Wilson has apparently just come out of the closet to House today. Whatever; all I know is what I saw."

"I knew that bastard was lying!" Warren muttered angrily.

"Maybe," Levison agreed, "It was looking more and more like he wasn't involved. Now I just don't know. He could be in on it with Davin…but I really don't _feel _it in my gut, Toby. In fact, I'm wondering if Dr. Wilson might not be Davin's next target. Look, I have an idea that I'd like to look into once we're done here. There just might be a way we can get Davin to hang himself knowing what we do now."

"~*~"

Lisa Cuddy walked quickly back towards Gregory House's room. She had given Wilson time alone with the diagnostician to talk privately, most likely about the attack and the repercussions it was having on the oncologist; namely, the intensity of the scrutiny into the two men's private lives and the seriousness of the suspicions the police held towards House's best friend. She wondered what else they had discussed during her absence. Did they talk about House's unintentional 'coming out', as it were? Had it been a shock to Wilson to find out and he had needed to speak about this with House and what it meant for their friendship and living arrangements? Or had Wilson been lying to her and the police when he'd claimed that there was nothing romantic taking place between the two best friends? Was it possible that her Chief of Oncology and her Chief of Diagnostic Medicine were secret lovers? Had Wilson bought the loft out from underneath her and Lucas as a love nest for a burgeoning relationship that House and he had tried to keep as secret from her as the loft's purchase? Was Wilson hurt by the fact that House had been with someone else the other night and needed to find out exactly where they stood now that the diagnostician was better able to discuss such issues?

The Dean of Medicine wished she could have been a fly on the wall in the room to overhear what had been discussed.

She needed to talk through this with House, too. It had more than startled her to find out about House's inclinations. Even though she had been making a concerted effort to move on with her life with Lucas, she still had feelings for House that were yet to be reconciled. She didn't know what she wanted to talk about with him; she just needed for him to tell her in his own words the truth and what that…meant.

_Face it, Lisa!_ She told herself harshly. _You want to know how this has impacted House's feelings for you in the past and how they are impacted now. You liked knowing that he was interested in you even though you had no intention of ever having a relationship with him. _

It had been flattering, a selfish boost to her ego which she had allowed herself to enjoy at the diagnostician's expense as payback for the thousands of ways he had made her life a chaotic mess over the past twenty years. She didn't want to lose that little bit of control she had over him, the only control she had ever had over him.

A few important questions she had were answered the moment she pulled the sliding door to House's room open and took a step inside without knocking or otherwise announcing herself first. She stopped dead in her tracks when she came upon the oncologist and the diagnostician in a very…uh…passionate embrace. They kissed with a desperation that came from years of self-denial and pent up need. House's one hand held Wilson's head in place while his other one was up underneath the other man's untucked shirt, appearing to caress his chest. Wilson's right hand rested in the small of the diagnostician's back and his left hand was secreted under the blanket that covered the bottom half of House's body. From the gasp and groan emerging from deep in House's throat she was certain that she didn't want to know exactly what that hand was doing (even though she did). They seemed completely oblivious to her presence, far too focused on each other to notice her. The smell of sweat and musk in the air was very, very strong. Her face flushed and she carefully back-stepped out of the room and slid the door shut noiselessly.

At first she considered pounding on the glass to break up what they were doing. This was a hospital after all and what if a nurse should walk in on that? However, that thought was quickly forgotten. Because no matter how conflicted her feelings were over House and Wilson being lovers, she couldn't deny the fact that watching them kissing and fondling had aroused her. It was screaming hot! She never thought she would ever find watching two men together to be arousing, but she did. Perhaps it was because one of those men was House, and hearing that groan of passion rise out of him, though not a result of being with her, had lit a flame deep in her pelvis she could not deny. Alright, she had to admit that she'd always been a little curious about how Wilson would be in bed, as well. His reputation preceded him around the hospital and he was attractive with that dark brown hair and warm brown eyes. The idea of both of them moaning, gasping, grunting in rut was nearly overwhelming!

Cuddy knew she should walk away, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she continued to watch them through the small space in the door where the blinds were not completely closed. Her entire body tingled as House's hands moved slowly towards the waistband of Wilson's trousers and Wilson's hand under the blankets could clearly be seen pumping House's cock faster and harder. The diagnostician's hands fumbled frantically with his best friend's belt; once he had it undone he worked on the button and zipper. Wilson lifted his hips to allow House to lower his pants just past his buttocks. He quickly pushed down the oncologist's underwear as well and grabbed a handful of hot, engorged cock in one of his hands.

Hearing the both of them grunt and groan, muffled as it was by the glass, made her wet, her silk panties becoming damper and damper and the urge to touch herself almost overpowering. She was breathing heavily, unable to tear her eyes away. She mocked herself, calling herself a pervert for watching them like she was, but not really caring, either.

House growled and pushed Wilson down until he was lying on the bed; the older man must have turned the heart monitor off and removed the leads, not wanting to draw the attention of the nursing staff by the rapid beating of his heart during sex with his male best friend. Wilson didn't fight as House interrupted the ministrations on him to focus on the younger man. He grabbed Wilson's face in both hands and thrust his tongue deeply into the other's mouth; he then movedhis hot, wet kisses down his jaw, and then tantalizingly brought his mouth down to Wilson's throbbing member.

Cuddy moaned softly, not knowing how much more she could watch before she could no longer resist the urge to fondle herself. Oh how she wanted to join them…!

She jumped at least two feet in the air and choked off a squeal when she felt a finger poke her in the back! She spun around, panting lightly, her face flushed, to find House's three Ducklings standing there. They stared at her in astonishment with her reaction. Chase had been the one to poke her; Thirteen stood next to him holding a small flowering plant in her hands. Taub stood behind them looking like, well, like Taub always looked—bored and put out.

"What are you doing here?" the Dean of Medicine demanded, wide-eyed and trembling slightly. Chase and Thirteen exchanged looks and an amused smile cracked the lips of the female Fellow.

Chase looked at her like he was uncertain about the hospital administrator's sanity. "We came by to visit House, see how he's doing," the Aussie told her cautiously. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Unwilling to tell them the truth and unable to think of a plausible excuse for her presence she just stared at them dumbly. Thirteen's smile broadened as she moved closer to the door.

"Dr. Cuddy," she said, "You were staring in there like you were watching something…." The younger woman tried to sneak past her to have a look for herself when Cuddy moved quickly to block her way.

"This isn't a good time to visit Dr. House right now," She declared, trying to direct House's team away from the room. "You all can be a lot more useful in the clinic, I'm sure!"

It was Taub's turn to smile quizzically. "Dr. Cuddy, why are you trying to get rid of us? And why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?"

"What?" Cuddy asked quickly, her voice squeaking ever so slightly. "I'm not trying to get rid of you—wait, where's Chase-?"

"Oh my god!" she heard the Australian doctor's distinctive voice as he struggled to keep his voice down in spite of his shock. He had slipped past her and stood next the 'peep hole', a look of shock and possible amusement on his face. Thirteen pushed passed the Dean now, and peeked in to see what Chase had seen. She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Wow," Thirteen murmured, chuckling softly as she continued to peer inside the room. "That's hot!" A particularly loud moan and stammered curse word came from inside House's room, causing Taub's eyebrows to shoot up in curiosity. "Is House doing what I think he's doing?"

During all of this, Cuddy covered her face in embarrassment and humiliation. Here she was, the Dean of Medicine, caught in the act of voyeurism, watching two department heads giving, well, head. Slowly she began to slink away from the room and the other three doctors, looking for an opportunity to break off in a run towards the elevators. She could sprint quite well in four inch heels.

"Oh, yes," Thirteen whispered, still watching through the blinds. "But it's _who_ he's doing it with that is most interesting!"

Taub approached the door but Chase held him back, trying hard not to laugh and retch at the same time. "Prepare yourself—it's not pretty."

Giving Chase a dirty look, Taub pushed past him and joined Thirteen at the window. He looked in the same opening, only below Thirteen.

"Oh my fucking god-!" the oldest of the three Fellows gasped, pulling away from the window quickly, nearly crashing the top of his balding head into the female Fellow's chin. "House and Wilson? Holy shit!" He looked towards Cuddy, who had already snuck several feet down the corridor before being caught. "I don't believe this! Cuddy, you were acting as their _lookout_?"

All three eyes were now boring holes in her back. Cuddy stopped where she was, hanging her head slightly. She took a deep breath, tried to summon her dignity and turned back towards them.

"Of course, not!" she insisted indignantly. "I came to speak with Dr. House when I…well, I was just as shocked as you three!"

"She wasn't watching _out_ for them," Thirteen grinned, returning her gaze to the performance taking place, "she was just _watching_!"

"I…I…," Cuddy stammered indignantly, "I most certainly was not!"

"Wow, and I thought House's ass looked good in jeans!" the younger female doctor commented from where she gazed. She apparently didn't fear having her boss and his best friend-slash-lover overhear; enough noise was coming from the two of them now to drown out anything _she_ had to say.

Chase was looking a little embarrassed and queasy now. He grabbed Thirteen by the forearm, gently pulling on her to drag her away from the window. "For god's sake, Thirteen! Give them a little bit of privacy!"

One of the men within, most likely Wilson, cried out House's first name very loudly. Thirteen backed away from the window, shrugging. "Hmm. I thought House would have been first."

A string of curse words from a familiar growly voice came through the door.

"Nothing left to see here," Chase said, shaking his head, trying not to laugh. "Let's get the hell out of here before they find out we've been spectators! There has to be an agreement among the four of us that we never acknowledge that we were ever here and we never speak of this ever again. All agreed?"

"Absolutely!" Taub agreed.

"I was never here," Thirteen seconded. Three pairs of eyes were directed at their exalted leader, who just happened to look like she wished she was under a rock somewhere rather than there."

"Hell, yes!" Cuddy added quickly and then turned and half-ran towards the elevators. The three Fellows followed closely behind her.

"~*~"

House held Wilson close to him on the slender hospital bed, the thin hospital blanket he'd been given covering the both of them. They both were silent for a long time, their breathing slowing, basking in the afterglow, as it were. Wilson's dark head rested on his lover's shoulder, his eyes closed sleepily but he was still awake.

"Do you think they saw everything?" the younger man asked softly, blushing slightly. House nodded slowly, smirking.

"Yeah…Cuddy…all," he answered and then chuckled.

The oncologist groaned, shaking his head. "All I know is that the last thing I remember seeing was Thirteen staring at your ass."

"It's …one…my best…features," the diagnostician told him, earning soft laughter from his lover.

"Well, at least we don't have to tell them we're fucking each other," Wilson told him. "By the way, where _did_ you throw my pants?"

"Biohazard…bag."

"House!"

**A/N:** **Sorry, but I couldn't pass up on the chance to write in both House-Wilson hot sex and voyeurism at the same time! I don't know about you, but I'd bring popcorn and a soda and watch that if I had the chance. (sigh). I'm a bad, bad, girl!**


	12. Chapter 12

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: A shorty but a goody (I think, anyway)!**

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Twelve**

The five of them filled the Dean of Medicine's office, staring at each other somberly: Cuddy, seated at her desk; Wilson in one of the chairs opposite Cuddy; House, wiggling irritably in a wheelchair positioned next to Wilson; and Detective Warren, seated on the sofa. Det. Levison was the only one standing, which was fine; he was the one doing most of the talking. The doctors in the room looked a little stunned at the news the detectives had just given them.

"I can't believe Chuck's dead," Cuddy said, shaking her head, mystified by the murder of one of her hospital's best doctors."

"I can't believe Klein was gay," Wilson commented, "The guy had a girlfriend he'd been seeing for six months."

"You've had a girlfriend or two," Cuddy told him pointedly, "plus three ex-wives, a slew of nurses and Amber."

"I wouldn't say a _slew_ of nurses-," Wilson defended but was cut off by House, who had remained quiet up until this point, partly because he was still angry at Wilson's insistence that he ride in a wheelchair down to Cuddy's office.

His speech was slowly but steadily improving on its own. "Don't forget…cancer…girl."

Wilson glared at him.

"Her name was Grace, House," the oncologist said, annoyed. "She was a woman, not a disease."

"Whatever," the diagnostician said dismissively, which only further annoyed his lover. He mentally paused at that thought. _Lover_. He almost smiled but caught himself just in time. "Klein obviously gay. Girlfriend was…beard."

"Was what?" Cuddy interjected, looking at House in confusion.

"Doctors, please!" Levison spoke up, trying to bring their focus back to the reason they were assembled there in the first place. She looked to Warren. "Toby, go on."

Warren sighed shaking his head. "We received intel this morning that there were three unsolved murders in Montana, the last one as recently as October of oh-nine that have similar elements to those we found with Dr. Klein and with your near death, Dr. House. All three in Montana were medical doctors, were between thirty-five and fifty-five years of age, male, gay or bisexual. They were known to attend gay bars or nightclubs on occasion. The M.O.s are also shockingly similar. A neck tie was used in each strangulation death, pre-mortem sexual activity had taken place and the bodies were prepared and posed in similar ways post-mortem. You were lucky, Dr. House—something scared Davin away before he could finish you off and do the same to you."

"No such…thing…as luck," House told him, frowning. "He's choosing… where? Hospitals? Clinics?"

"We're not positive," Warren told him, "But it looks like he's targeting his victims in hospitals. Two of the three from Montana were from the same hospital in Billings. The other was from a community hospital in Great falls. Both you and Klein were employed here. We're working on the assumption that he exhausts his prospects at each hospital before moving on. The Great Lakes murder occurred three months before the first one in Billings. The second Billings murder occurred two weeks later. Five months later you're attacked and now Dr. Klein. You're the only victim to survive. Are you certain that you don't remember anything that happened immediately before or during your attack?"

"Nothing," House said grimly, with a touch of frustration. "You're not…here…just to…give…news. What have…you got in…mind…plan?"

"Very astute," Warren told him with a nod. "We have a possible way of catching Davin. If we circulate his picture around the hospital, he could pick up on it and take off before we can do anything to smoke him out. We don't know if he works at the hospitals where his vics are employed or if he's a patient or visitor. We want to do this without alerting him."

"If he does target all of the individuals in each hospital before he moves on, it's possible that he may strike again with any other male doctors who work here who are gay or bisexual."

House looked at Wilson and then to her, his 'spidey-sense' tingling as it were; immediately he objected. "No! Not…Wilson! He's not bait!"

Wilson suddenly understood what House meant with that cryptic statement. "You want to use me to draw out the killer so you can capture him?"

Levison nodded. "Yes. You have the right to say no, Doctor-."

"Damn…right!" House said protectively. "Find someone…not Wilson."

"House," the oncologist said, looking to his best friend. "This may be the only way this guy can be stopped!"

Stubbornly sticking to his position, the diagnostician looked the younger man in the eyes. "Don't be…idiot!" he said. "Dangerous. Could get…killed!"

"We'd have you wired and tailed so we can keep close track of you," Warren told Wilson, ignoring House's protests. "There wouldn't be a second where you weren't being watched. If anything started to happen we'd be on the creep before he could lift a hand to hurt you."

"Right," House shot back sarcastically, "because cops…never fail. Find someone else…not him." He looked almost imploringly at the oncologist. Almost. "They screw…up, you…you die. No. I won't…lose you….Not now."

Wilson looked at him incredulously. It wasn't his insistence that surprised the younger man; House was a very stubborn man. No, it was the fact that he expressed such a deep, personal sentiment at all, much less in a room full of people. It wasn't…Housian. House himself wondered if perhaps his emotional openness at that moment wasn't an after-effect of his brain injury.

"Listen, this guy nearly killed you and he has killed four others," the oncologist told him softly, capturing his azure gaze. "If I can help prevent this from happening again to someone else, how can I say no?" Before House could tell him just exactly how he could say no in several foreign languages, no less, Wilson turned to Warren and said, "I'll do it. What do I have to do?"

House pounded the armrest of the wheelchair angrily but said nothing. He was certain that his glower was more than enough to let everyone know how opposed to this he was. The diagnostician knew, however, that Wilson could be just as stubborn as he, and at this point wouldn't let House intimidate or trick him into changing his mind-just as he hadn't when it came to donating a lobe of his liver to his so-called friend, the self-absorbed jerk, Tucker.

"Basically," Levison told Wilson with a rueful smile, "we have to out you, make certain that it's known around the hospital that you are bisexual. It pretty much has to spread like wildfire so that Davin gets word of it even if he's just a casual visitor to the hospital and not on staff."

"I have my assistant and the head of hospital security going through all of the personnel files as we speak to see if any of our staff match the description and artist's sketch of him," Cuddy told her. "If he's part of the hospital's support staff he may have been hired by one of the supervisor's without my ever having seen him."

The female detective nodded in appreciative acknowledgement and returned her focus to Wilson. "Once word is out, then we have to place you in his hunting grounds—gay nightclubs and bars—and see what happens. We don't know for certain if he makes his choice here or if he waits to see if a possible victim actually frequents such establishments. Either way, there will be an undercover officer following you at all times even while at home. It may take more than one visit at an establishment and we may have to try different establishments because he may sense that The Spectra Lounge is hot and avoid it."

"Hot?" Wilson echoed questioningly.

"Cops watching," House explained for the detectives. The oncologist nodded in understanding.

"When do we start?" Wilson asked, looking a little nervous; now that he had committed himself,he was anxious to get this over and done with.

"Are you sure you're comfortable with coming out with…this?" Cuddy asked him.

Wilson looked at her unwaveringly. "I've dealt with my own issues over who I am. I'm not ashamed."

The corners of House's mouth turned upwards, nearly becoming a smile but not quite. His eyes smiled, however. Hearing Wilson say that was like music to his ears. How long had he dreamt of this day? He would never let anyone know the answer to that. Well, maybe he'd tell Wilson, eventually. Someday. Maybe. When he was drunk.

"Your coming out has to be very public, shocking even," Warren told the oncologist, his arms crossed over his chest. It has to have maximum impact so it spreads quickly to the entire hospital."

House caught Wilson's eye and smirked brazenly, "I'll help." The diagnostician had never given a damn about what others thought about him and besides, this could turn out to be very entertaining.

"I was kind of counting on it," Wilson said, grinning. "The Lobby?"

"Duh!" House replied, probably because it was the easiest for him to say. "But…no chair."

"House, we don't know if you can even walk properly-," Cuddy told him, raising her eyebrows.

"Foreman and physiotherapist by…this…day," the diagnostician informed her. "I'm…slow but…walk…fine. Fine motor…screwed up…though."

"It'll come," his lover told him. House could tell that Wilson wanted to touch him encouragingly but wouldn't do so with so many eyes around because he knew how the older man could be about public gestures of affection—unless it was a blatant effort to attract attention as a means to some kind of devious end. His display of respect for the older man's feelings touched House (probably yet another emotional blip arising from his injured brain) and he reached out and touched the oncologist's hand briefly. It didn't go unnoticed by the recipient, who gave him one of his special smiles, the one that had always made House ready to surrender to whatever whim the younger man had—if he'd only known.

"Let's get this show on the road," Levison told them with a smile, rising to her feet. "I think I'll hang around in the background to watch the variety of reactions you'll elicit. Should be interesting!"

Warren shook his head, "I think I'll pass," he grumbled quietly, screwing his face up in disgust, as if anyone other than Levison could tell.

"~*~"

House's team had their assignment. They had been informed by their boss that they had to make casual small talk around the hospital as they worked about seeing House and Wilson kissing, holding hands, embracing…anything that would help with the news of Wilson's sexual orientation becoming a well-known fact among the staff. Foreman had balked at the idea until Cuddy had informed him that it wasn't a request. The other three ducklings didn't mention that they had already witnessed irrefutable evidence of the pairing. They had sworn each other to secrecy, after all. Thirteen had taken her assignment with relish; Chase and Taub were a little less eager to do what they were told, but complied anyway.

The diagnostician and the oncologist were in House's office discussing exactly what they would be doing and how. It wasn't going to be difficult, after all. House couldn't wait for the opportunity to shock and awe, even if he was still opposed to Wilson participating in the police's plan.

House was glad to have his cane and the privilege to use it after being stuck in bed for the past few days. When he walked he was, as he said earlier, slower and had to concentrate and focus on the coordination of each step he took, but he was capable and eager not to see that wheelchair again. In fact, he had signed himself out of the hospital that morning, A.M.A. of course. Wilson had promised Foreman he would keep close watch over the surly older doctor in case complications arose and he needed to return to the hospital; the oncologist knew that fighting House on the issue would only lead to yelling and a lot of aggravation—and House would win out in the end, anyway.

Wilson headed down to the Lobby first; he had business at the main nursing unit just off of the Clinic anyway. He stood at the desk, signing case files and authorizing lab requests and other paperwork when House, clad in hospital scrubs, stepped off of the elevator and carefully made a bee-line towards the oncologist, a look of purpose and determination on his face. Cuddy had been busying herself in the Clinic and upon seeing Wilson's arrival had positioned herself where she could see the transaction as it occurred; she looked anxious, wondering what kind of flack she was going to receive from the Board of Directors when they caught wind of this. Levison sat on a bench and thumbed through a magazine, looking up surreptitiously from time to time to survey the lobby, looking for anyone who matched Davin's description as well as waiting for the show. Warren, true to his word, had gone to find Cuddy's people going through the personnel files to give them a hand.

Watching the older doctor approach with his peripheral vision, Wilson pretended to be too busy to notice him.

"Wilson!" House shouted so that everyone in the lobby could hear him. "There you are!"

The oncologist took a deep breath and then looked up at his lover and smiled warmly; the smile wasn't an act. House met up with him at the station.

"I missed you at lunch," Wilson told him, raising his voice slightly. The nurses at the station stopped what they were doing and looked up.

"Louder!" the diagnostician mouthed before broadcasting, "Sorry about… lunch, Jimmy. Let…me…make it up…to you!" He wrapped one arm around the oncologist's waist and pulled him until the length of their bodies made contact. His other hand went behind Wilson's head and pulled him into a kiss. They had decided upon a wild, wanton kiss with plenty of tongue and groping but when it actually happened, House kissed him tenderly but passionately, his fingers playing in his lover's dark brown locks. Wilson had reacted a little surprised at first, having failed to receive the memo about the change in plans, but adjusted very well. He allowed himself to melt in the older man's arms, blocking everything but House out of his head. They parted just long enough to breathe before joining their lips again.

House forgot all about the eyes watching them in shock, amusement and dismay. He allowed himself to get lost in the younger man's chocolate brown eyes. His tongue tickled Wilson's lips and he opened them to allow House's tongue passage. Moaning involuntarily with desire, House caressed every part of his lover's mouth, feeling himself becoming aroused. He knew he would half to pull back soon if he didn't want everybody and their dog to know just how excited he was becoming. He felt Wilson's arms move to embrace him, one slipping around his neck and the other moving downwards until his hand firmly grabbed House's ass and began to knead it. Yup, House told himself, it was time to back away before Little Greg made an appearance in a big way. He gently pulled back, still looking deeply into his lover's eyes and smiling genuinely. The entire event took no more than fifteen seconds but it wasn't nearly long enough as far as the two of them were concerned. They drew out of the embrace and Wilson quickly turned so that his body was hidden by the desk. Obviously Little James had been even more eager that Little Greg had been.

"Almost finished?" House said, enjoying the fact that their public display of affection had had the desired effect of drawing the attention of every person in the lobby. "Can't wait…to…take…you home!" He _sincerely_ meant every word.

"Just a few more minutes," Wilson told him, winking. "Then I'm all yours for the evening!"

Both doctors could hear the odd giggle or comment as gossip began to spread already. There were a few unimpressed coughs and even an utterance of 'faggots' from somewhere behind House. Most people went back to their normal activities, but there was still an air of shock in the lobby that told House 'Mission Accomplished'—and not Bush-style, either.

This was Cuddy's cue. She came storming out of the Clinic, her eyes flashing her 'anger'. She marched up to the two department heads, her hands on her hips. "Dr. Wilson and Dr. House—may I see you in my office now, please!"

"For what?" House demanded with a straight face. "Our kiss? Cuddy, you're not a homophobe, are you?" That comment was not in the script and the Dean of Medicine gave him her infamous death glare. "I've caught you and Lucas tongue wrestling a few times when he's come by to pick you up!" He added.

"My office," she replied, an edge of reality lacing her angry voice. "Now!" She pointed in the direction of the Clinic.

"It was just a kiss, Dr. Cuddy," the charge nurse at the station told her boss carefully. "It's not like they jumped on the desk here and began to have sex."

The Dean of Medicine turned her glare at her. "Don't give them any ideas! Get back to work!"

Wilson signed off on his last file, sighing. "Let's go and get this over with, Greg."

The two doctors headed in the direction of Cuddy's office with their boss urging them forward like a Border collie driving a herd of sheep towards a pen. Once they were in the privacy of her office Wilson and House began to chuckle but the Dean of Medicine didn't appear to be as amused.

"A homophobe?" she echoed irritably. "What the _hell_ was that?"

"Improvisation," House quipped quickly.

"For that little improvisation you get two extra Clinic hours to finish as soon as you return to work," she told him, walking to her desk and sitting down. "Now the both of you get out of my office so I can work out exactly what I'm going to say to the board when they find out what we just did."

"Prima…Donna," House retorted before sticking his tongue out at her. He felt Wilson's hand find the small of his back and gently guide him towards the door.

"Let's get out of here before she adds more hours to your sentence," he told the older man.

The diagnostician had shivered involuntarily at his lover's touch. He liked his hand there…he'd have to have Wilson touch him there more often.

"Right," House said as they emerged from her office into the waiting room of the busy Clinic, "Let's hurry home for some pre-dinner nookie!"

Wilson had to smile. It actually was a damned good idea.

"~*~"

Anne Levison set the magazine down and rose from the bench. As she headed nonchalantly towards the Human Resources office to meet up with her partner she smiled with satisfaction. If that little stunt didn't get lips flapping, she wasn't certain what could. On a more serious note, she wondered if Warren and the two hospital employees had turned up anyone on staff who could possibly be the Davin they were looking for. If they found two or three possibilities then either Avery or Tsui could confirm whether or not any of them were the man they saw at The Spectra Lounge with Dr. Klein. Levison actually doubted that the guy they were hunting was on staff; it would be too risky once the police began to investigate Davin's handiwork and she didn't take Davin to be a stupid man prone to taking a lot of unnecessary risks. He was careful, methodical and knew how to hide in the wide open, perfect talents for a sociopathic killer.

She hoped they weren't taking too big of a risk putting a civilian in the line of fire like they were with James Wilson. She didn't want to see yet another death chalked up to Davin.

"Anything?" she asked the senior partner as she met him in the corridor just outside of human resources; they had obviously finished up in there and Warren was on his way to the lobby to find her.

He shook his grizzled head. "Nothing. I doubt he's on staff here. I sure hope your idea works, Annie. Everything set for Friday night?"

"Everything but coaching Dr. Wilson," Levison told him and they both walked towards the lobby. "I thought I'd do that tomorrow. This is Dr. House's first night back at home and I figured it might not be a good time to-."

"I don't even want to think about it," Warren told her, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "It's a free country but that doesn't mean I want hear about a bunch of guys flirting with each other in it."

Shaking her head, the female detective said, "You know, I'm kind of disappointed in you, Toby. Okay, I get it—you're straight and you cannot understand why one man would have sexual interest in another man. That's understandable. What's not understandable is your intense hatred for it. Gays and bisexuals are human beings, but you treat them as if they were _Untermenschen_. 1 It's wrong—just as wrong as any other form of bigotry."

"'Live and let live', huh?" he returned sourly. "It's not natural, Annie."

"There is solid scientific evidence to show that there is a biological component to sexual orientation!" Levison argued incredulously. "Let go of your hate—it's really very ugly!"

"I never claimed to be pretty," he retorted.

His partner had heard enough. She stepped in front of him and blocked him, forcing Warren to stop. He had a good seven inches on her, at least, but she wasn't intimidated by that. She glared up at him with open anger, her hands on her hips.

"This stops now, Toby!" she told him. "Nobody can tell you what to believe, but when you're on the job, you represent the Mercer County Sherriff's Department so you'd better keep all of that hatred and bigotry bottled up tight! The next time I see you give one dirty look or rude comment I'm going to report you to the Captain personally. People like Drs. House and Wilson have the same rights as everybody else and do not deserve to be the target of your contempt! We've been friends for several years now, but I can't stand idly by and witness this any longer!" She turned and stormed away from him and then paused after a few feet and turned around. Warren hadn't moved from his spot, looking at her nonplussed.

"Get off your high horse, Toby, before you fall off and get hurt!"

Levison returned to her rush to the hospital exit without looking back again. She'd had a long day, was pissed off, and only wanted to go home, soak in a hot bath and erase the ugliness from her brain for the few hours she had before she had to face the ugliness of a serial killer and a homophobic partner again

The detective's mind was racing so much that she didn't notice Dr. Chase until she ran into him at the main doors of the hospital. He appeared to be on his way home as well.

"Whoa!" he said, backing up. They had hit rather hard and Levison felt momentarily stunned. "Are you okay, Detective?"

She looked at him for a moment, blinking several times before recalling his name. A flush rose to her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Dr. Chase! I wasn't paying attention to where I was going! I'm fine—are you alright?"

"Me?" he responded, smiling and shrugging. "No worries. Quitting time?"

He held the door for her as they both left the hospital, walking towards the parking lots.

"Yes, finally," Levison nodded with a sheepish smile. "It's been a long day."

"You can say that again," he agreed. They walked side by side, both of them saying something now and then in the realm of lighthearted small talk. Levison kept glancing furtively at the incredibly good-looking doctor with the sexy accent. He seemed polite, sweet even. She sighed inwardly. He was probably already taken. It seemed unlikely that a handsome, intelligent professional like him would escape detection and not be claimed. Then again, maybe that's what most women thought when they looked at him. Wouldn't it be ironic if Dr. Chase was unattached and women avoided approaching him because they were under the misconception that he was unavailable?

Levison sighed, deciding the direct approach was best. "So, Dr. Chase, would you be interested in joining me for a bite to eat tonight—that is, if you're not already busy?" _And taken?_

He looked a little surprised at the question coming out of the blue like that, but it didn't seem to bother him. He regarded her with blue-green eyes and a smile.

"Uh…Sure, I guess. Why not?" he said almost shyly and she couldn't help but match his smile.

_Yes!_ Levison thought, sighing silently in relief and giving herself a mental pat on the back for summoning a little courage and taking a risk. "If you're okay with it," she told him, "there's this great steak and pasta restaurant just off Nassau and Elm, near the university campus? Great food and a quiet atmosphere."

"Sounds great," he nodded. "I have a couple of errands to run…how about I take your number and address and I'll pick you up at, say, seven-thirty?"

"Sure, so long as I get your number as well," she told him, smiling coyly as she pulled out one of her cards and scribbling down her first name, home and cell phone numbers and address, handing it to him. In return he returned his information to her on the back of a 'script blank.

"Annie," he said, reading her card and smiling. "I'll pick you up at seven-thirty, Annie."

"Sounds great, Robert," she replied and they parted ways, she heading to the Visitor's lot and him to the staff lot. She waited until she was in her car before she allowed herself a small, undignified fan girl squeal. Pulling herself together again, she pulled the car out of the stall and drove away, feeling quite pleased with herself. That hot bath she had planned could wait.

1 Untermenschen—German, a translation into English being 'under or lower men', or sub-human. A horrific and bigoted term arbitrarily used by the Nazis in reference to a number of racial and social groups they deemed to be inferior to the 'Aryan' race, including Jews, Gypsies, the mentally ill, the mentally and physically disabled, political and religious dissidents, etc.


	13. Chapter 13

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: We're nearing the end. Only two more chapters after this one!**

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

House had returned home from the hospital still wearing the scrubs he had put on earlier to be seen in public. Wilson had gone to his bedroom to change and wash up before preparing dinner. House had decided that was a good idea and headed to his bedroom as well. He stopped short at the door, staring in. The blankets and sheets that had been on his bed had been removed by the police as evidence, leaving behind a bare mattress. There was a strong chemical smell in the air that was cloying.

His surroundings shifted suddenly and House had to grasp the door jamb to keep him from falling. The lighting was different somehow; it seemed dimmer. He heard the front door to the loft open and then slam shut loudly. There was the sound of the rustling of clothes, deep chuckling of two voices, the growls and groans of passion and furniture being tripped over. The diagnostician limped into the living room as quickly as he was able to see…himself and another man clenched in a frenzied kiss, their hands roaming all over each other and they fought to undress each other without having to break their embrace.

He watched with fascination and horror, not stopping to wonder why it was he was watching himself molesting and being molested by the stranger from outside of himself. He heard himself tell the stranger that he wanted to fuck his brains out. The stranger growled the question of where the bedroom was and they gradually made their way past House towards the corridor that led to the bedrooms. They didn't make it that far, however. Both appeared to be very drunk and he smelled marijuana smoke in the clothing they were dropping along their way. House watched himself grab the stranger and slam him forward against the corridor wall. While holding him there he rolled a condom onto his throbbing cock and then with any gentleness at all rammed himself into the stranger's opening. He could hear the stranger yelp in pain and then start to moan in pleasure.

He couldn't see the stranger's face. Come to think of it, he hadn't been able to see the stranger's face the entire time. Something was wrong…something was very wrong.

"Stop!" he told himself, standing next to himself as the naked one of him fucked the stranger into the wall with abandon.

"Stop it!" House yelled this time at his double, growing angrier and more anxious each second. "Damn it, stop it!" He reached out to pull himself off of the other man when the world shifted again and everything went black for a moment.

This time the diagnostician did fall. He fell back against the wall and came to rest on his buttocks on the hardwood floor. He couldn't move. It was pitch black. In the distance he heard Wilson calling him. He probably needed his help with something in the kitchen.

"House? House, can you hear me? House—Look at me!"

Slowly the lights around him rose again to its original level and his double and the stranger were gone. He was down on his ass on the floor and Wilson was crouched in front of him, one of his hands cradling House's face while the other flashed a pen light into his eyes and stared into them worriedly. His best friend looked frightened. The diagnostician blinked a couple of times, reorienting himself as he watched the oncologist speed dial on his cell phone, bringing the electronic device to his ear.

"Hello?" the younger man said into the phone, still watching House's face. "This is Dr. James Wilson from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I need an ambulance sent to-!"

Reaching out quickly, the older man grabbed the cell phone from his hand, pressed end and set it down on the floor.

"No… ambulance," House told his best friend and lover weakly. He raised a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head as if to clear it. "I'm okay."

"You're _not_ okay!" Wilson protested. "I was in the kitchen when you started yelling at some kind of hallucination and then collapsed! When I got to you your eyes were open but you were still out of it and your pupils were non-responsive. Foreman was right—it was too soon for you to come home. I'm taking you back to the hospital!"

"No," was the response as House searched for his cane and found it on the floor a couple of feet away. He leaned for it but Wilson must have thought he was falling over because he grabbed the older man quickly and held him up.

"My cane," House told him, annoyed. He pointed at the object. Catching on, the oncologist grabbed it and handed it to him. Trying valiantly the older man tried to rise to his feet on his own but found that his muscles were still a little too weak to do it on his own. Frowning in frustration and avoiding the younger man's gaze he held out a hand to him. Without further hesitation Wilson grabbed him and helped him to his feet, steadying him.

"You were hallucinating, House. It's obviously a result of the brain injury," Wilson told him, frowning in concern. "I really think you should let me-."

"I…remembered a…little," House cut him off, staring at the place on the wall where he saw himself having sex with…with his attacker? It had to have been. He couldn't remember having sex with any other man other than Wilson in years. It had to have been the one the police called Davin.

Davin…the name didn't ring any bells. He couldn't even remember his face. He had no problem remembering other parts of him, however. The diagnostician frowned in consternation.

Wilson followed House's gaze and then a look of recognition crossed his countenance. He nodded his dark-haired head slowly.

"What did you remember?" came the natural next question.

House looked into his lover's dark brown eyes, uncertain whether he wanted to tell him the truth. He was afraid that revealing what he had 'seen' might hurt the oncologist unnecessarily. He did feel a little dizzy.

"Bedroom," the diagnostician said instead. "Want…to lay…down. A little…dizzy."

It was apparent on his face that Wilson was debating whether or not to help him to the bedroom or lead him towards the door and the car. Reluctantly, Wilson wrapped an arm around the other man's waist and helped him down the corridor towards the bedrooms. House tried to turn into his room but Wilson kept guiding him towards the master bedroom.

_Oh yeah_, House thought to himself with a little smile and allowed him to be led to the younger man's bed. Fleetingly he wondered if the sheets had been changed since the Harpy had been between them and then reminded him that this was _Wilson's_ bed. They had probably been changed the moment her carcass had crawled out of the bed for the last time.

Wilson took House's cane from him and set it against the wall near the bed as House sat down on the bed, not bothering to pull back the covers; he didn't plan on sleeping, he just wanted to lie down until the dizziness passed. He slipped his shoes off and allowed Wilson to help him get his bad leg up onto the bed with as little pain as possible. Lately his leg had been behaving itself much better than it had in a long time. Perhaps part of his brain injury would result in less pain? Naww—he was never that lucky. It would come back soon enough. Ordinarily he wouldn't have allowed the younger man to help him nearly as much as he had but House had to admit that he was feeling pretty wiped out. He laid his head on a feather pillow and sighed as he tried to allow his body to relax. He'd never lain on Wilson's bed before and it felt strange but also nice. He'd certainly dreamt of lying on this bed with his best friend before, although they were never fully clothed in his dreams and resting wasn't what they were doing.

The oncologist removed his own shoes and then crawled up onto the bed to recline beside him, watching his face worriedly.

"Are you certain that you're feeling alright?" he asked the older man.

"Just tired," House assured him with a weak smile. "Come closer."

Smiling coyly, Wilson wiggled a little closer but not nearly enough to satisfy. House reached over and wrapped his arms around his best friend, pulling him to himself until their bodies were flush with each other. Wilson curled up to House, resting his head on the older man's shoulder and his arm wrapped around his waist. House's one arm snaked under Wilson and around him while the other arm wrapped around the front of him, holding him possessively close.

"Mmm, nice!" the oncologist said and sighed contentedly. "Why did we wait so long to do this, House?"

"Think…you can...call…me…Greg all…the time…, seeing... we're…going steady." The diagnostician murmured, earning a chuckle. "Waited because you…fixated with…fairer sex, I believe."

"Oh yeah," Wilson acknowledged, sighing. "You could have said something about how you felt about me sooner, though."

"Told you…two… years ago," House argued quietly, calmly. He could lie there like that with his lover forever if he was allowed to. He hadn't felt this at peace in years…not since he was with Stacy, before the infarction—only this was tenfold better.

"I don't recall that!" the younger man said quickly, confused. "When was that?"

"After my…electro—electrocution," he answered, recalling the occasion as if it had occurred yesterday. He had watched one of his patients stick a pocket knife into a power outlet because the kid wanted to see God again. He'd been curious to know what exactly _did_ lie beyond death, if anything. He had been certain that nothing did, of course. Well, almost certain; he couldn't forget that experience on the bus with Amber after she had died. It could have been the misfiring neurons of his injured brain causing that illusion. So he'd taken the boy's pocket knife and decided to try it out for himself. He wasn't trying to kill himself—he simply wanted to conduct an experiment, and sometimes the interests of science had to come at the expense of other things. He hadn't been stupid, after all. He had paged Dr. Amber Volakis, a.k.a. Cutthroat Bitch and Wilson's future main squeeze to come to his office stat before jamming the blade into the wall and allowing one hundred and twenty volts of electricity to course through his body, knocking him cold and stopping his heart. For a few minutes he'd been dead and he saw…well, that was his confusion, wasn't it?

Upon waking from his little experience he'd found Wilson sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, staring down at him with red-rimmed eyes full of anger and hurt. He regretted having upset his best friend so much, and knew that no matter what he said to try to explain his actions the oncologist would never understand—and he couldn't really blame him for that. It had touched him to see just how much his life had meant to the younger man. It gave him hope that perhaps…well, perhaps that one night they'd shared years before had meant something to him. Wilson had asked him what he'd seen and he'd told him nothing…which hadn't exactly been true. He'd had no words capable of describing what he saw, and doubted he would have been believed anyway—he hadn't even believed himself entirely, so nothing had been the simplest and best answer. House had been in pain from the burns on his hand and the residual effects of the electrocution throughout his body. Wilson had responded by upping his morphine drip. The diagnostician had felt himself begin to fade away under the morphine's influence and didn't want to fall asleep before telling Wilson how he felt about him. All that he could muster before he floated away was a simple, "I love you". Later he realized that Wilson had mistaken his confession of love for a flippant thank you induced by the narcotics.

After House, in his currently clumsy speech patterns, retold this to his lover Wilson was quiet in his arms for several minutes, during which House had begun to doze off. Wilson's sudden talking again startled him awake.

"I thought you were kidding," the younger man told him pensively, frowning slightly. "I was furious with you."

"I know," the diagnostician assured him, squeezing him tighter in his arms for a moment to reassure him that there were no hard feelings.

"I feel…awful about that."

"Don't," House told him. "I'm a…sarcastic…bastard. How could…you know…better?" He turned his head and gently laid kisses against his lover's temple. God, how he loved this man in his arms!

They were quiet again for a few moments. House relaxed with the sound of Wilson's calm breathing and the warmth of his body against his. He inhaled the smell of his thick, dark hair, having always loved the smell of it. There had been times when he and the oncologist had been standing ridiculously close for two male friends, as they always did, that he could smell the clean, delicate scent of whatever shampoo it was Wilson used and silently enjoyed it when he figured no one was looking. He smiled at the fact that now he could smell it whenever he wanted to and not have to worry if Wilson knew what he was doing.

Breaking the silence the younger man asked, "What were you hallucinating earlier, Greg?"

House loved the way his first name sounded coming out of Wilson's mouth!

"I remembered…part of…the attack," he answered, not wanting to volunteer anything more.

Wilson raised himself up onto his elbow and looked down at House, curiosity written all over his face. "You said that…but what exactly do you remember happening? Did you remember your attacker's face, or last name, or what?"

"I couldn't see his face," House told him softly, his body tensing with the memory. "He was blond…athletic, strong…very strong…but…." His voice drifted off. He didn't want to tell Wilson about it. For the first time in a long time he felt genuinely ashamed and he looked away from his best friend, his jaws working hard as he tried to keep himself tearing up.

Reaching, the younger man gently laid his hand on House's stubbly cheek and turned his face back to face him. The older man averted his eyes and silently cursed as his eyes misted up.

"I love you, Greg," Wilson told him. "You don't have to be afraid to talk to me about it. The police already filled me in on a lot of the details they were able to ascertain from the evidence."

"We…were like…beasts," House said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Violent. It was…only…sex. Nothing else." He looked up imploringly at Wilson as he said the last part. He relaxed slightly when Wilson smiled softly and caressed his cheek.

"I believe you," the oncologist said with a nod.

"Frustrated…hurt…about Sam and…you. I was…drunk and…stoned. Smelled pot." House sighed and closed his eyes, trying to focus on what he saw. "He was…strong…but…let me to…dominate, I think. Stopped in…the corridor. Don't….remember…more." He exhaled loudly, feeling a knot that had formed in his stomach. His heart was racing from fear and he trembled a little. Opening his cerulean blues he added. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," Wilson said before slowly moving his face in and kissing him gently on the lips. It was sweet and loving and undemanding. In that moment, House believed he may have found Happy and desperately wanted to hold onto it for as long as possible.

"How do you feel?" the younger man asked when their lips parted. "Are you still dizzy or disoriented?" He took House's wrist and checked his pulse. The older man allowed him to do it, even though he was feeling much better, so that his mind would rest easier.

"Fine," the diagnostician told him. "Feels weird…here, on…your bed. With you. Good…but weird."

Chuckling, Wilson nodded and then lay back down, cuddling up close. "It feels great to me. I have an idea…why don't we order a pizza and watch a movie like we used to?"

House raised an eyebrow and smiled slyly, "Naked?"

The younger man screwed up his face a little. "While we're eating?"

"We'll…use napkins," the older man assured him with a grin and wagging his eyebrows. "May come…in...handy later. It'll be…fun!"

"~*~"

There were lights on in the loft apartment and every so often a shadow would pass between the light source and the window, casting silhouettes to the viewer in the car outside the condo complex. They were both home. While he wanted both of them, he believed that two at once might beyond his ability to control the situation. It also meant a shift from the Way it was done and that grated against his being like fingernails on a chalk board. Still, Davin knew that the police were on the lookout for him, so exactly how he made contact with them necessarily had to be altered this one time. He would take both of them tonight, he decided. He would reclaim the treasure he hadn't been able to present in all of his glory as well as take yet another one for himself. This masterpiece would be greater than all of the rest, greater than the very first.

He shifted the binoculars he was peering through to street level and refocused them on the unmarked police car parked out front of the condo complex. They really were very predictable. Did they take him for an idiot? Of course they would be watching over their pawns in their juvenile plot to capture him. He had expected that from the start. It truly was unfortunate that the police failed to hire people with an IQ of 100 or over. Of course, idiots did make better goons. Cops were little more than hairless apes wearing blue and dragging their knuckles on the ground as they went through their pathetic days. They would never be able to outsmart him. Of that Davin was certain.

He put the binoculars down on the passenger seat, on top of the extra-large pizza box he'd borrowed from the delivery man; he'd also borrowed his car and uniform, but didn't think he would mind. At least not until he woke up from the blow to his head and found himself tied up and dumped into the ditch of a quiet back road. _If_ he woke up, that is; Davin never remembered his own strength until it was too late.

He started the car and did a u-turn, driving down the street away from the condo complex unnoticed. He made four right turns around the block and pulled up behind the ghost car. He pulled the pathetic uniform ball cap down around his ears; it covered his blond hair almost entirely, which was a nice but unnecessary bonus. He'd learned a lesson from his mother growing up that served him very well in his art; she had made a practice of hiding gifts around the house strategically but in plain sight and it had always worked, until she slipped one time and Davin had figured out her little trick. He never let on that he knew her secret after that, but he had tucked that knowledge away in the filing cabinet of his mind to use someday to his advantage. The best way to hide anything, including oneself, was to display it in plain sight as if it belonged there the entire time and was in no way unusual or out of place.

He grabbed the pizza box from the passenger seat, placing the binoculars on the floor of the car as he did. From the backseat he retrieved a delivery bag and slug it over his shoulder; it contained everything he would need to complete his masterpieces and place them on display for the world to behold. His work received more media representation than anything at the Metropolitan Museum of Art ever did. Sure, he could never reveal that he was the genius that had created them, but it wasn't about the fame—it was about the art.

Shutting the car doors but not locking them Davin walked past the ghost car and noticed the two undercover cops watch him as he passed them. He smiled at the closest one and tipped his cap to him, receiving a friendly smile in return. He had to give credit where credit was due; Princeton had the friendliest police force he had ever encountered. He walked up the walkway to the building and then buzzed the outside call button.

"Yes?" he heard a raspy male voice say over the tinny speakers of the intercom."

"Pizza delivery," he said in his best New York accent, smiling at himself at how clever he was.

"Come on up," was the reply from within the building and the familiar buzz of the lock on the front entry being released. He jerked the door open and casually made his way inside. Whistling to himself out of tune, he took the elevator up to the top floor. He was pleased that the car was empty. Quickly he pulled a gun out of his delivery bag and then opened the pizza box and sprinkled the pizza with the clear, tasteless liquid. He shoved the gun into his jacket pocket, closed the box and replaced the bottle to the bag before the doors opened again. If the elevator had been called to another floor along the way he would have pressed the stop button for the few seconds he needed and then claimed that he didn't know why the car had stopped briefly between floors. Fortunately, he hadn't had to resort to that.

On the top floor he stepped out of the elevator to find the corridor empty and quiet, just as he had suspected it would be. He went to the familiar door and knocked on it. Davin hadn't known that the pizza had been order by anyone in the building when he'd borrowed it; it was sheer fluke that a pizza had been ordered from there, and even a greater fluke that it had been ordered by the occupants he was there to see. He'd simply waited until the delivery boy took in the order before this one and waited for him to come back out, at which time the delivery boy had been more than happy to lend his clothing, car and food to Davin. Somebody was smiling down on him. God was a great patron of the arts, after all.

He heard footfall come from within the loft apartment. His hand slipped into his pocket and found the cold metal he was looking for. He released the safety and calmly waited. Haste made waste, after all.

The door was soon unlocked and opened to reveal a tall man with short, dark brown hair and eyes wearing a bathrobe. That was one of his masterpieces in the raw, alright.

"Pizza," Davin told Dr. James Wilson with a smile.

The doctor smiled back, "That was fast!" He went through his wallet briefly and pulled out a couple of bills, holding them out to Davin. "This should cover it!" The doctor took the box and Davin took the money. He put them in the same pocket as the gun, finding it again.

"Here's your change," the 'delivery boy' said, slowly bringing out the pistol.

"Keep it," Wilson told him, already turning away from the door, about to close it.

"No," Davin told him, pulling out the pistol and leveling it on Wilson. "My boss wouldn't approve!"

The doctor's eyes widened as large as dinner plates in surprise and fear crossed his face.

"Hello Dr. Wilson," Davin said to him quickly but calmly. "My name is Davin. If you don't want to be shot in the belly I suggest you keep your mouth closed and let me in. You cry out or try to do something heroic and I will have to shoot you."

Nodding rapidly in acknowledgement, looking even more terrified now that the initial shock had worn off, the doctor backed up so that Davin could enter. With one hand the gunman closed the apartment door behind him.

"You—y-you are the one who attacked G-Greg," Wilson stammered softly.

"That's right," Davin told him with a friendly smile. "But you must understand that I never meant to leave him injured and in pain. I just wanted to make him beautiful. But then I heard some noise and had to leave before I was done but fear not; I have returned to finish making him a masterpiece and I'm going to make one out of you, too! Where is Greg, James? I know he's home. Is he in the living room? Or the kitchen? Or perhaps the bathroom?"

The oncologist opened his mouth to speak but had difficulty finding much of a voice. He was trembling slightly from head to toe and his eye flitted from the gun to Davin's gaze repeatedly.

"H-he's in the bathroom taking a shower," the doctor told him. "L-look, uh, Davin, you d-don't have to do this. Y-you can just g-go now and n-neither G-Greg nor I w-will call the police until y-you are long g-gone, I p-promise!"

Davin said nothing to that, slowly backing Wilson out of the foyer and into the living room. He could hear the shower running towards the back of the loft. On a sofa a little nest of pillows and blankets had been constructed and the TV was on some ubiquitous channel that the artist didn't bother acknowledging. It appeared that the two lovebirds were preparing to spend a quiet evening watching a movie or their favorite television shows cuddled up together. How adorable! Davin felt bad that their plans were going to be interrupted, but it was unavoidable; he had to create when his muse was speaking to him.

"Sit down on the sofa, James, and relax," Davin instructed him. "There's nothing to be afraid of. This is going to be a magical evening for the three of us, I promise you!"

Wilson swallowed hard and sat down as he was told, setting the pizza box down onto the table. He was breathing rapidly, looked pale, and a thin sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"P-please don't do this!" Wilson said, his voice shaking.

Davin put a finger to his lips. "Shh!" he whispered. "I want to surprise Greg when he comes out!"

He sat down in an armchair where he could keep watch of Wilson and see House when he came into the living room, the gun inconspicuously pointed at the frightened oncologist. The sound of the shower running stopped. Wilson's eyes flashed at that and his lips twitched.

"Not a sound, James," Davin murmured softly but menacingly. He hoped House hurried up in there and came out soon. The cops would get suspicious of a pizza delivery boy staying so long at a drop off. He smiled when he heard the sound of the limping feet and thud of the cane approaching the living room.

"I smell…pizza," House called out as he came down the corridor. "Let's eat, I'm famished-!" He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Davin in surprise; the artist could see the recognition of who he was in his blue eyes. The diagnostician wore a white terrycloth towel around his waist and nothing more. His eyes flashed from Davin to the back of Wilson's head to Davin again. The oncologist hadn't moved to look at House. The artist raised his gun a little so that House could see the gun.

"James, are…you…alright?" the older doctor asked his lover without looking away from Davin.

"Y-yes," Wilson stammered, "I'm okay."

"Let him go," House told Davin quietly but firmly, nodding towards the younger doctor. "I'll do what…you want. Leave him…be."

"Oh, Greg," Davin responded, shaking his head and smiling indulgently, "it's so good to see you again up close! We were interrupted last time, but don't worry, I haven't given up on you. You will still be a magnificent piece in my collection, as will James."

"You're fucking insane!" House growled angrily. "I'll be damned if I'm going to allow you to hurt James! You'll have to kill me before I allow that to happen!"

Davin laughed in delight. "You are incredibly witty, Greg! Of course you'll fight to the death to protect James; I will be forced to shoot and kill you. But once you're dead, it will be much easier to kill him. Now, I have no more time to waste. James, stand up and walk to the kitchen. Set two dining chairs back to back please and then sit down in one of them."

Wilson slowly got up and turned around. Davin watched as the two lovers exchanged frightened looks. Wilson walked past the diagnostician to the dining table and pulled out two chairs, setting them back to back as instructed and then sat down. Davin carefully walked around House, keeping a careful eye on him as he approached the younger doctor.

"Very good, James," Davin told him approvingly. "Now, where is your cell phone and pager?"

Wilson remained silent, setting his jaw and glaring at him determinedly.

Davin sighed in exasperation and put the muzzle of the gun against Wilson's forehead.

"Greg, where are the cell phones and pagers? Tell me or I'll blow his brains out!"

Wilson gasped in terror, tears filling his eyes. He sat perfectly still, apparently afraid to even blink. House had begun to take a step towards Davin but stopped dead in his tracks. All color left his face and he wasn't able to hide his fear.

The older doctor reluctantly answered, "Master…bedroom. All."

"Good," Davin told him, still holding the gun to the oncologist's head. "Now come slowly towards me and stop when you reach the chair."

House's gaze was unwavering as he limped towards the artist. He stopped where he was told. The muscles in his face and jaw were working overtime. His hand on the cane gripped the walking aid white-knuckled.

"Now turn around slowly and sit down," was the next command made to the diagnostician. "If you try anything funny, James will be given an instant lobotomy."

Slowly and deliberately the older doctor did as he was told, not making any attempt to charge Davin or escape in any way. Davin took a step away from the oncologist, pulling the gun away from his head. He could hear the dark-haired man exhale sharply as he did that. Davin removed his delivery bag from his shoulder and set it down. He reached into it without looking and felt around until he found the roll of duct tape he had brought, and pulled it out. He handed it to Wilson, who looked back at him in confusion.

"You're going to bind Greg up with that tape as I instruct you and then you are going to sit back down so I can bind you. Again, if either of you try anything I have no problem with shooting either one of you," the artist told them. Wilson stood up and while Davin gave him directions and inspected the job he did, Wilson tightly bound House's hands together behind his back, bound his legs and feet to the legs of the chairs, wrapped the tape around House's head, covering his eyes and then gagging his mouth but leaving his nose uncovered so that he could breathe.

"I'm sorry, Greg," Wilson had told him before covering his eyes.

"It's not…your fault," House had told him before the duct tape was wrapped across his mouth. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Wilson murmured, a tear running down his cheek.

"Alright now, James," Davin said. I want you to bind the chair backs together with the tape, wrapping it around three times. Then hand me the roll, turn around so that your back is to me and clasp your hands behind your back."

Again, Wilson did as he was told. Davin reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of vinyl gloves and put them on, took the roll from Wilson, and began to bind the oncologist up the way House had been. After inspecting his handiwork and feeling satisfied that it would hold long enough for what he needed, he put the duct tape into his bag and then hurried to the master bedroom. Locating the electronic communication devices on their chargers Davin grabbed them, ensured that they were turned off, and then stuck them into the bag. He returned to the living room and pulled the phone out of the wall and unplugged the answering machine.

"Okay, fellows," Davin said to them as he turned on the safety on his gun and stuck it into his jacket pocket. "I'll be gone for about ten minutes but I'll be back, I promise, and then we can begin the process of transformation together!"

With that Davin left the loft, but not before grabbing Wilson's keys, and headed quickly back down the stairs towards the condo entrance; he'd already been up there way too long. As he exited the building and hurried down the walkway towards the street he saw the cops still sitting in the ghost car. They alerted when they saw him and the artist held his breath as he walked past. The window of the car rolled down and the cop addressed him.

"What-Did they invite you to join them for dinner?" The question was good-natured, said with sarcasm.

Davin smiled thinly and shook his head. "Naw. The idiot couldn't find his wallet so I had to wait for him to find it so I could get paid!"

The cop laughed and then the window rolled back up. Davin continued walking to the delivery car and climbed in smoothly, setting the delivery bag onto the passenger seat. He put on his seat belt, started the car and pulled carefully into traffic, driving two blocks before hanging a right and then turning right away into a back alley. He parked the car behind an apartment building and changed out of the uniform, putting on his own shirt and jacket, transferring the gun over, and taking off the ridiculous ball cap. He ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times to get rid of the hat-head he had acquired. Grabbing the bag again, he left the car and locked it this time; he was going to be away from it for a few hours and he wanted it to still be there when he was done.

He looked around briefly, ensuring that he had no observers, and then walked the two blocks back towards the rear entrance of the condo complex. He grinned excitedly. It was time to create some art!


	14. Chapter 14

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: Enjoy! =)**

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Detective Dick Avery leaned on his desk with his elbows, resting his cheek in his left hand, a pen in his mouth and his right hand working the mouse as he scrolled through page after page of employee records from the company that contracted itself out to PPTH to clean their mats and carpets. Earlier that evening he'd gone through the hospital's personnel records again with the hope that fresh eyes that had actually seen Davin's face might be able to pick up on something that others' hadn't. That had proven fruitless, so he turned to looking through the personnel files of the various different businesses that served the hospital which had been obtained buy subpoena power. The bullpen was quiet, as it usually was at night. Besides him, there was another junior detective doing research on another unrelated case and a janitor that was going from desk to desk emptying waste baskets.

He released the mouse long enough to rub his eye, which, like its twin, was tired and bloodshot from staring at the monitor for hours. His contact lenses were drying out and he'd forgotten his refreshing drops in his car. He grabbed the take-out cup that was half-full of coffee and took a sip, screwing up his face at how cold it had gotten and set the cup back down on the desk again in disgust. Finding nothing of interest there, he went next to the files of the painting company the hospital had recently hired. These hadn't been digitized, so he was forced to look through a stack of hardcopies. Fortunately each file had photographs of the employee included with his or her personal data and record.

He quickly put aside all of the files with definite female first names, focusing on the male employees. There were eight to look through and when he came to the second last one he inhaled sharply, staring at the picture. The man in the photo, which was a head and upper chest shot of him, was blond with a well toned face and neck and the presence of well defined deltoids and pecks under the light blue uniform shirt he wore. He wore dark brown heavy framed glasses and sported a full but neatly trimmed mustache but there was no doubt in Avery's mind that this man was Davin. He looked at the full name in the records. William Harrison Davinport, aged forty-two. His past employers in Montana read like a map of where he had claimed his victims. The detective grinned in victory, exhaling in relief.

He picked up the phone on his desk and paused, trying to decide which of the two senior detectives he should disturb in their off hours, Warren or Levison; there really was no doubt in his mind as he dialed the latter's cell phone. She didn't growl at him and call him an idiot even when he did something right.

"~*~"

Levison chuckled as she brought her glass of water to her lips to drink. Robert Chase laughed as well at his own joke and then put a forkful of pasta into his mouth. She watched him chew, the way the muscles of his jaw flexed and contracted beneath that perfect face. He was a generally quiet man, she noticed, not one to talk anyone's ear off, but when he did speak what he said was intelligent and witty. She liked that. It was annoying when men did nothing but yak about sports or how great a catch they are.

"So," she asked, trying to keep the conversation fairly light while at the same time trying to learn a little bit about the man behind that pretty face, "are there any scorned Mrs. Chase's I should watch my back from?"

His smile faded a little and Levison wondered if she hadn't stuck her foot in her mouth with that question.

"Forget the question," she told him quickly, shaking her head. "It's really none of my business."

Chase looked her in the eye and smiled a little sadly, shrugging. "Just one, but she's not scorned. She's the one who left, actually. Actually, the formal divorce papers are being filed as we speak."

"Sorry," the detective said to him and hid herself behind her glass again. _Way to go, Annie!_ _No wonder you're still single!_

"Don't be," he told her. "It hit me hard at first but I'm doing…better. Time to move on. How about you? Anyone I should be watching out for?"

"Nope," she answered, smirking. "I'm too choosy, I guess, but I haven't met Mr. Right yet. He has to meet up to rigorous standards, you know."

"Really?" the doctor answered, grinning again. "Thanks for the warning!"

Levison opened her mouth to respond when her cell phone rang. She sighed silently. It had occurred to her to turn it off that evening but hadn't allowed herself to do that with a serial killer roaming Princeton. She knew she had to remain available to be contacted in case a development occurred. She pulled the cell phone out of her purse and checked the caller I.D.; it was the office. Damn.

"I'm sorry," she apologized to her date, "but it's the Department. I really have to take it. I'll just be a moment."

"Of course," Chase told her with a curious look.

She rose to her feet and walked away from the table towards the washrooms as she answered. "Detective Levison," she said.

"It's Avery," she heard over the phone. "Sorry to disturb you Annie but I thought you'd like to know that I've identified Davin."

Levison nearly dropped her cell phone. "Well, tell me more!"

The junior detective told his superior the information available on the personnel file of William Harrison Davinport, including his address where he lived. According to the file he had been working for Porter Painting for a week shy of two months. Before that he had worked for a national courier company out of its Billings, Montana office.

"Excellent!" Levison told him, grinning from ear to ear. "Good job, Avery! Call Warren and tell him what you just told me. I'm going to call the District Attorney's office and see if we can find a judge to swear out a search warrant for Mr. Davinport's place."

"I'm on it," Avery said with a resigned sigh, and Levison knew why—he had called her first because he hadn't wanted to call Warren. _Oh well_, she thought, _suck it up, princess, that's life_!

"Bye," Levison said and hung up. She looked across the room at Chase and sighed; so much for their date. Maybe he'd understand and consider another one once the case was solved and signed off to the D.A. He was a doctor; he would understand that emergencies happened at just the wrong times.

She approached the table again and he smiled genuinely when he saw her; well, that was a good sign, at least.

Levison gave him an apologetic expression. "Robert, that was another detective assisting in the investigation; he has breaking information and it just can't wait. I'm afraid I'm going to have to go in to the station. I'm sorry."

He smiled and shook his head. "Don't worry about it—I'm usually the one who gets called away so I completely understand. I'll pay the check and then take you home."

Levison realized with frustration that he had driven and it was a fifteen minute drive back to her place, then a twenty minute drive back to the station.

"Actually, if you don't mind," the detective said to the doctor, "would you mind just dropping me off at the station rather than taking me home? It's just a couple of minutes away and I'm kind of in a rush. I can have one of the other detectives drive me home later."

Chase shrugged. "Sure, no problem at all."

"~*~"

That was the problem with Wilson, the world-renowned diagnostician thought as he struggled to no avail against the duct tape that held him securely to the dining room chair, he was meticulous and careful and did a good job the first time. Ordinarily, those would have been star qualities in a person, but not when it meant that the two of them were bound and helpless awaiting the return of a homicidal maniac hell bent on using them as art materials.

House refused to give up trying, though; the alternative was to sit passively and wait to be murdered and hog tied and left for the police or whoever else unlucky enough to get there first to find. He hoped that by forcing with all of his might against the tape that it might slip or stretch enough to give him a chance of freeing a hand. What he would do with that hand once it was liberated he didn't know, but it would at least be a start and he had time in the meantime to think up a plan.

He still suffered from muscle weakness however, so he didn't have enough umph or force to make any headway. He'd have to come up with another plan, one where he didn't need a great deal of strength to execute it. Davin would be back soon, and if he was as ritualistic with them as he was with his other victims then he would be forced to unbind them at some point in order to rape them and strangle them. House figured that Davin would likely try to kill Wilson first; the lunatic didn't know the oncologist as well as House did and probably saw him as being weaker, more submissive and easier to control because of his good natured personality. The diagnostician knew that his best friend and lover had extraordinary courage when he absolutely needed to summon it and a wicked left upper cut that came at a person seemingly out of nowhere. Nevertheless, Davin would probably choose to kill Wilson first thinking that he'd be easier to control and that by forcing House to watch the rape, torture and death of his friend it would crush his spirit enough as to render the diagnostician more helpless and easier to control as well. House had to admit that that was probably true—he would be crushed by the death of Wilson and probably would be ready to pack it in and join him into what was after, whatever it was or wasn't.

That's why the older doctor determined that he would be the first one to be unbound, not Wilson; sure, Wilson had full use of both of his legs where the diagnostician had use of only one but if he timed everything right, he wouldn't need his right leg because his arms and hands would do all of the work in killing Davin, or at least knocking him senseless. It was probably a good thing that he and Wilson were unable to communicate just then; House didn't want to let on to his friend that something wasn't quite as it appeared to be. If Wilson was convinced, then Davin would be too.

_Alright, you asshole_! House thought hatefully. _Come and get me!_

"~*~"

He knew one thing for certain, there was no way he was going to allow anyone to hurt House again. Wilson would die fighting for his lover's life. He knew that he had the reputation of being the peacemaker, the lover not the fighter—and for the most part that was true. He did believe in taking the high road and negotiating rather than warring over things—but only when that was a possibility. From the look he'd seen in Davin's eyes—the absolute madness—the oncologist knew that there was no making peace with that monster. War had been declared and Wilson had pledged to himself that no matter what else happened House would be the last man standing when the dust settled.

Knowing House as well as he did, Wilson knew that the older man would do everything he could to protect him from harm. He knew that House didn't see the oncologist as a weakling that was incapable of taking care of himself but that didn't matter; the older man was extremely possessive and protective of anything and everything that was his and as far as he was concerned, Wilson was his. The people House loved and cared for were his and nobody took or damaged his possessions without facing his wrath. That worried the younger man, because that meant that his best friend would probably attempt something impulsive and dangerous that would likely end up getting him shot and killed. Wilson had to think of a way to prevent that.

Davin likely saw the oncologist as the calmer, easier-going, wimpier one of the two of them. Most people did, and Wilson couldn't have cared less, ordinarily. House was daring, fierce and intimidating, but Wilson knew that most of that was bravado and desperation born out of pain and vulnerability. The House that Wilson knew was certainly courageous and strong; this being the case, the madman would likely choose to finish the older man off first, complete what he had already started and get the biggest threat out of the way before moving on to the 'easier' half of the evening.

Wilson knew he had to get Davin to pick him first. He would have the element of surprise on his side and a good left hook that tricked most right-handed people. Being a southpaw did have a few advantages. He wouldn't hold back or show any kind of compassion or empathy; his goal was to kill Davin before Davin could kill House. He wasn't a healer tonight; 'first do no harm' didn't apply.

He needed to come up with a way to convince Davin that he had to unbind him first. It needed to be compelling enough to make the serial killer believe that it was in his best interest to take care of the oncologist before finishing off House. But how? What should he do?

"~*~"

As Davin got closer to the back entrance of the condo complex he noticed a dark car not parked in the parking garage but just off to the side of it. It was an older model Chevy Malibu in black, causing it to blend into the pitch shadows of the building, unreached by the street lamps. He slowed his pace slightly, cautiously peering for all he was worth to see if it, too, was a ghost car set to watch the back of the building for intruders. It wasn't until he was within five yards of it that Davin saw a hint of movement inside the vehicle. Sure enough, it was another sentry. Perhaps the cops in charge of this case were a little smarter than the average ape, but they were still no threat to him. He smiled. He wasn't an intruder—after all, he had a key.

Picking up his pace again Davin strode confidently past the cops, not letting on that he even saw them. He pulled out Wilson's key chain and allowed it to jingle a little more than necessary and pick up and reflect what little ambient light there was in that back alley. There were five keys on the chain and he didn't know which one actually unlocked the entrance so he quickly glanced at and felt the keys noting their size, cut and shape. He was able to identify the car key right away, and there was one key that was thinner and smaller, which he figured was probably a mailbox key or something of the sort. That left three keys that he was uncertain of. He tried to determine which ones appeared the most worn; chances were Wilson and House weren't the original occupants of the loft apartment; it may have been owned by several people before they bought it. If any of the keys appeared to be more worn than the others, it was a good chance that it was for the exterior doors of the building. Exterior locks were changed a lot less often than the individual apartment door locks within.

One of the three looked like the teeth were more abraded due to a greater of frequency of use. That would be the key he tried first; if it failed then he would be forced to try the other two as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible, and hope that the watchers didn't notice.

He reached the door and tried to position his body so that he was at least partially blocked from the cops' view as he slipped the key in and turned it. He heard the desired roll of the bolt as it slid back. Smiling with satisfaction he heaved the door open and quickly stepped inside of the building, allowing the door to shut itself behind him with a click. Davin exhaled in relief and then made his way up the stairs to the top floor. He was in excellent shape and wasn't even winded when he reached the sixth story. Quickly he headed to the loft. He hadn't locked the door on his way out, so slipped into the apartment without any fuss. He locked the door behind him.

"Fellows, I'm back!" he called out pleasantly as if he had just come home and was greeting his partner after a long day's labor. He stepped into the main area of the loft and walked towards the kitchen, finding his two slabs of marble still bound to their chairs, no worse for wear. He set his bag down onto the nearby dining table, smiling at them almost lovingly. "I hope you didn't miss me too badly. Now that I've taken care of a few matters, we have the entire evening to create." He heard both men trying to scream behind the duct tape over their mouths but all that came out were muted whines. It was _so_ cute.

Davin pulled his gun on them again. "Alright, Greg and James, I'm going to remove the tape from your eyes and mouths. I feel the need to remind you that screaming, yelling, shouting or any other loud vocal expressions will be rewarded by a bullet in your brains. But first, a little music to inspire my muse." He went to the TV and turned it off then went to the stereo system and after a brief moment of familiarizing himself with it, turned it on. Classic rock began to play; he had selected one of House's playlists. Smiling, he turned it up high enough to mask any unexpected noises in the loft but not loud enough to draw complaints from the neighbors. The current song was "It's Only Rock n' Roll" by The Rolling Stones.

He approached the doctors and began to remove the tape from Wilson's face first. He jumped in surprise when House let out a moan that seemed to come from deep in his belly and his head began to knock uncontrollably against the back of his chair; his body began to stiffen and then shake as much as it possibly could beneath the restraints. Davin stripped off the blindfold; House's eyes had rolled into the back of his head.

Davin sighed. Damn it! He'd forgotten that House had incurred a brain injury from his foiled first attempt. The man had begun to seize. The artist quickly removed the tape from Wilson's eyes and mouth, pulling out hair everywhere, it seemed. The oncologist screamed in pain and in returned received a backhand across the face as a reminder courtesy of Davin.

"What's wrong with Greg?" Wilson demanded, nearing panic-level anxiety. "Greg? Greg?"

"I think he's having a seizure," Davin told him with preternatural calm. "His eyes are rolled up into his head, his body is jerking and shaking and..and I don't believe he's breathing currently. What should I do, James?"

"Remove his gag!" the oncologist said quickly, his voice shaking with fear. "Check to see if he's swallowed his tongue or if anything else in obstructing his airway and damn it—do it quickly!"

Pondering that a moment, Davin didn't move right away. Did he allow the diagnostician to die by this 'natural' cause? If he did, then if the police ever did catch up to him, he couldn't be charged with _first_ degree homicide, which was tempting. However, that would be yet another parting from the process he used to create his masterpieces; the resulting work would reflect such a flaw, and he really wanted this evening to produce the greatest pieces that he had ever created. No, he couldn't let House die this way. It would ruin things far too much!

Quickly the artist ripped the tape off from over the older doctor's mouth which was tightly clenched with the seizing of his muscles. There was foam in the corners of his mouth. Davin managed to pry his jaws open to look in.

"All I can see is the underside of his tongue. I can't see his throat."

"He's swallowing his tongue and it's blocking his airway!" Wilson exclaimed, sweat dripping down his brow, his face a mask of fear. Free me and then him! I need to act right away before he chokes to death! Do it!"

Davin hadn't wanted to release them both right away, but couldn't see how he could avoid it. He hurried to the kitchen and pulled a butcher knife out of the wooden block on the counter and brought it back with him. He used it to cut through the tape quickly. When the last strip had been compromised, House fell to the floor, and convulsed; he was having a grand mal. The blond stood over him, watching the diagnostician with curiosity.

"Let me loose!" Wilson shrieked. "I can't help him like this!"

Sighing, Davin carefully sidestepped House's body and keeping his eyes on him at all times, he began to cut through Wilson's restraints.

"Don't try anything, James," he warned his prisoner, "or I'll shoot you, then him!"

Once freed, Wilson hurried to House's side. He was quickly convinced and looked up at the artist. "I need my medical bag from my bedroom," he said with urgency. "I have medication in there that will help stop the seizure!"

Davin bit his lip, looking from the seizing man to his lover. This was a bit of a quandary. He didn't want to leave the room and leave Wilson alone with House with opportunity to escape and get help. He could take Wilson with him, but if this was a rouse and House was pretending to be having a seizure, then he could run for help. But there was no way he could take both men with him.

"Do you hear me?" Wilson cried angrily. "He's going to die without that medication!"

He would just have to risk it, but he left a message with House before grabbing Wilson and pressing the gun against his head.

"In case you're faking," Davin snarled, "You try to run or come up behind me and James fucking dies!"

He began to back away from House, dragging the oncologist with him, down the hall towards the master bedroom. Once there he roughly pushed Wilson to the floor. The oncologist yelped in pain and grabbed at his knee; he winced in pain.

"Where is it?" the artist demanded angrily, aiming the gun at the doctor's face.

Wilson looked up the barrel of the gun and swallowed hard.

"~*~"

Levison sat anxiously in the passenger seat of Chase's car as they drove to the sheriff's station. Her gut was aching from a knot forming in the pit of it. It was telling her that something wasn't right, that she should be doing something else somewhere else; she almost always listened to her gut—it was almost always right.

"You okay?" Chase asked her, glancing over at her from the driver's seat.

Shrugging, she answered honestly, "I don't know. That phone call in the restaurant concerned the fact that we've finally identified the suspect in House's case; he works for the company that was hired to paint the walls at PPTH. He moves from place to place, taking jobs that put him near doctors and then watches them until he figures out which ones are straight and which ones aren't. Then he targets those that are either bi or gay. We have an address and that call I made as we were walking to your car was to the D.A.—he was going to go to a judge yet tonight and try to get a search warrant for the suspect's home. Everything seems to be going our way but…but I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong, that I need to be somewhere else." She shook her head at herself and gave him an embarrassed smile. "I sound crazier than the killer right now."

"Do you really think he's crazy?" Chase asked her. "Can't a killer be quite sane and aware of what he's doing but just not care whether or not it's wrong."

"Well," Levison answered, "It's a question of what your definition of insanity is, now isn't it? According to the law, the criteria that are considered when determining whether someone is criminally insane or not legally responsible for their actions are different from the common understanding of insanity to be. To be ruled not responsible due to insanity the defendant must, at the moment that the crime was committed, be suffering from a mental defect or disease that makes it impossible for him or her to understand the wrongfulness of his or her acts, or, if that person does understand that, to be able to tell the difference between right and wrong-."

She was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. The detective answered it immediately.

"Levison."

It was Warren's voice that spoke to her. "Got a call from Tsui where he's staked out behind Wilson and House's condo complex, Annie. He made a visual confirmation of our boy entering the rear entrance of the building using a key. He's inside! I'm racing there now but you're closer if you're on your way in to the station!"

"Shit! I knew it!" Annie said anxiously. "Tell Tsui to do what he has to protect them. If he needs to move in now, then tell him to go! I'm on my way!" She hung up and looked at Chase with urgency. "Do you know where House and Wilson live?"

"Yeah," Chase answered frowning questioningly.

"The suspect has been spotted entering their building! We need to get there, yesterday!"

Chase said nothing but did an illegal U-turn and then pressed down hard on the accelerator.

"~*~"

"It's in my closet," Wilson told the serial killer pointing a gun in his face; his voice was quavering so hard that he could barely speak. He knew he was going to die, soon, whether it was the lunatic in front of him who killed him or he died at his own hand because House died first, choking on his own tongue before anything could be done to save him. His body was reacting to the stress which was lagging behind his emotions, which no longer were fear and contempt but now resignation and numbness. Davin scowled at his suspiciously, trying to keep an eye on the oncologist in front of him while keeping an eye and ear out for House in the other room. "To the left and on the floor."

Waving with his gun towards the closet, he ordered, "Go get it!"

Wilson tried to obey but cried out right away and held his knee again. "I can't! You hurt my knee when you pushed me to the floor!"

Something akin to panic crossed Davin's eyes, but it was only there for a split second before the insanity returned. He began to back himself towards the closet, keeping a watch on Wilson. When he reached the closet he slid open the door crouched down, still facing his prisoner. He tried reaching behind himself and feeling around for the medical bag but came up empty handed.

"It's not there!" Davin roared at him, rising to his full height now. What had been a flash in his eyes before was now full-fledged panic on his face, about his body and in his voice. "You're lying!"

"I'm not lying! Wilson screamed, feeling like he was losing it. House was dead, he _had_ to be dead by now, this was taking too long, his injured brain wouldn't stand up to another round of anoxia. He couldn't continue without him, didn't want to, wouldn't. "For god's sake, turn around and look! I can't even get to my fucking feet, I can't run away!"

Davin's eyes flickered right and left quickly as he contemplated the pros and cons; he came to the conclusion that Wilson was right, and turned around to search in the dark corners of the storage space.

"~*~"

Tsui got the go ahead and then turned to the other cop in the passenger seat. "We're going in." He quickly called the ghost car out front and gave them the order then stepped out of the car along with the other officer. He checked his service pistol to ensure it was loaded and the safety was off. Receiving a nod from his partner, Tsui used the copy of the key they'd obtained from the Super and they were in. They would join the other two plainclothes in the corridor outside the loft before moving in.

"~*~"

House waited until Davin and Wilson were in the bedroom before he bummed his way over to the chair he'd been bound in just minutes earlier and used it to pull himself to his feet. He winced and turned thirty shades of grey from the agony that shot through his leg, hip and abdomen the moment he tried to put any weight on it.

_Fucking leg!_ He screamed in his head. _Don't do this to me now!_ But of course it was going to cripple him up completely now, when he needed to be able to move now more than before. His eyes roamed quickly, looking for his cane. He wouldn't be able to do anything without it. He found it a few feet away. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain he began to hop on his left foot towards it, each one jolting his bad leg and causing the pain of a thousand daggers being plunged in his ruined thigh all at once. His eyes teared uncontrollably and he accidently whimpered out loud once; the diagnostician hoped that if Davin had heard that, he would attribute it to the seizure and not react against Wilson.

House knew that he'd blown it big time. The seizure had seemed like a good idea at the time, and it had distracted Davin from freeing Wilson first, but it had been one of the stupidest things he'd ever done. Now the oncologist was alone in his bedroom with a serial killer hunting for a medical bag, of all things. For all the diagnostician knew, Davin could have taken one of Wilson's own ties and strangled him with it by now. The younger man could be dead, and it would have been due, in part, to the older man's blunder.

He slowly bent over, putting as little weight as possible on his bad leg and after a little of fumbling managed to grab his cane and pick it up. He sighed in relief, knowing it was to be incredibly short-lived. He still would have to get to the bedroom, using his bad leg at least a little to do it. He wasn't certain he could do it without ending up screaming and moaning from the pain and thus alerting Davin to his presence. If Wilson was still alive, Davin would probably shoot him after that.

Taking a few deep breaths and silently letting them out, the diagnostician readied himself for torture. He was a self-avowed atheist, but in the astronomically small chance that he was wrong, he hoped that God would help him to do this and preserve Wilson's life. He didn't care about his own life, he really didn't, because if Wilson didn't come out of this alive, House wouldn't live long thereafter.

He leaned heavily on his cane as he limped slowly but determinedly down the corridor. His whole body trembled from the extreme effort it took him to keep from screaming. It didn't take very long for the sweat to start pouring off of his body and the nausea to sweep over him in waves. No matter how hard he tried to get away without having to do so, House was forced to stop after every two or three steps to lift all weight off of his leg before the agony threatened to knock him cold. To add to his misery, his mind and body, as they always did when breakthrough pain threatened to drive him mad, craved Vicodin as if it was oxygen and he'd been holding his breath for a very long time. He approached the door which was partially ajar and held his breath to keep himself from panting or moaning and being overheard.

"_Go get it!"_ House heard Davin growl threateningly.

"_I can't!"_ Wilson responded angrily, _"You hurt my knee when you pushed me to the floor!"_

Wilson was still alive, but hurt! House felt his blood boil even hotter than ever. He lifted his cane like a weapon, fully prepared to literally beat the lunatic's head to a bloody pulp.

"_It's not there!"_ Davin yelled in fury. _"You're lying!"_

"_I'm not lying!"_ Wilson screamed back. There was desperation in his voice. _"For god's sake turn around and look! I can't even get to my fucking feet, I can't run away!"_

House could hear Davin rummaging around in the closet. This was his opportunity. He lifted his cane even higher and tensed his body, readying himself to pounce.

"~*~"

Detective Tsui held his gun at ready and nodded to one of the plainclothes cops, a large bear of a man. The officer turned his shoulder to the door and then ran at it, ramming it off of its hinges and tearing half of the jamb out with it, causing it all to crash to the apartment floor. Tsui led the other three through the portal.

"Police! "he screamed, "Drop your weapon and put your hands up!"

"~*~"

Even before Chase's car had come to a complete stop in front of the condo complex, Levison was out of her seat belt and jumping out the door. She hit the ground running, screaming at the doctor to stay in his car until it was 'safe'. He stared out the passenger side window, staring in wonder and fear at the woman as she pulled her gun and ran to the building's entrance, the door of which had been left ajar for back-up when it arrived.

Chase felt useless and frustrated, still wondering exactly what the fuck was going down!

"~*~"

Taking advantage of Davin being distracted for a precious few seconds Wilson jumped effortlessly to his feet, grabbed a lamp from the nearest bed table and ran at Davin with it. The 'artist' spun around suddenly when he heard movement. His eyes widened in fear and his raised his gun as the oncologist brought the lamp down.

Davin fired the gun.


	15. Chapter 15

**At The Spectra**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: Thanks to everybody who has so faithfully reviewed and to all of you for reading! It's been fun!**

**Warning:** This is an H/W pre-slash/slash fic. If you are not into that, this fic is **not** for you.

**Rated M for explicit sexual content, coarse language and violence. Reader Discretion is advised.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

House leapt just as he heard the gunshot explode in the bedroom and the front door to the loft apartment crash to the floor behind him. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach and stopped beating, or so it seemed. He didn't have time to really react to it, however. He managed to land solely on his left leg, but just the jolt alone caused him to see stars for a moment. The diagnostician tried to see through them. There was broken glass on the floor around Davin, whose flailing legs and lower torso protruded from Wilson's closet. The smell of spent gun powder stung House's nose. Wilson lay on his side on the floor, moaning. There was blood oozing out of his right shoulder. Davin began to rise up and move towards the oncologist. House swung his cane like a bat with every ounce of strength in his body. His hand-eye coordination was back; the walking aid hit the side of the serial killer's head as if it were a baseball . He could hear the crunch of Davin's skull as it was crushed and fragments of bone were driven into his brain, and the crack of vertebrae as his neck was snapped by his head being sent flying to the side.

Davin was dead before his body hit the floor just a couple of feet next to Wilson's.

"James!" House shouted in horror. He hobbled painfully to the younger man who was still lying, rocking slightly and groaning with pain. His robe was stained with blood and some of the life fluid made a fist-sized pool of blood on the hardwood. Half-shoving, half-throwing Davin's corpse aside, House knelt next to his lover. There was agonizing pain from his leg trying to overwhelm him but his adrenalin and fear held it back so that he could focus on Wilson. House rolled the wounded man onto his back.

He was barely aware of the cops storming to the bedroom from behind him. House tore open the robe to expose Wilson's bare shoulder and chest.

"OH GOD, it hurts!" Wilson muttered through gritted teeth. "Greg, you're okay!"

"You're hallucinating," House told him, covering the shoulder wound with his hands as he looked for something to stop the bleeding. He saw his towel that had fallen off of his body a few feet away and grabbed it, pressing it against the wound to staunch the bleeding. He didn't care that he was sans clothing; it didn't matter. "How do…you always…manage…to get hurt?"

"Just…oww! Just clumsy, I guess," he retorted, tears of pain running down his cheeks. "It's just…the shoulder, Greg. Didn't…hit the lung."

"So why are you…struggling to breathe?" the diagnostician asked him, trying to keep himself together and not allowing his emotions to overwhelm him. He only just began to hear the sound of sirens now, and was hoping that one of them was an ambulance. "Just shut up…conserve…your strength!"

"It's just…the pain…."

"I said shut up!"

House felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped, automatically jerking away from the touch. It was one of the cops that had come to the rescue a minute too late, as usual. He was furious at them, at Davin, at Wilson but mostly at himself. It was his fault his lover had been shot.

"Dr. House?" Tsui said, "Is he alright?"

"Does he _look_ alright!" House snapped sharply at the idiot asking him such a stupid question. "I need an…ambulance…a.s.a.p.!"

The detective went quickly to get help.

"Calm down, Greg," Wilson told him between gasps; neither doctor saw the irony of the injured oncologist being calmer than the normally stoic diagnostician. "I'm…going to be…alright. It's just…a flesh wound."

House didn't know whether to smack him or kiss him. He chose the latter, brushing the younger doctor's lips with his own. "A…flesh wound?" he echoed incredulously when he backed away. "We need…to get your…head…X-rayed as well." He caressed his lover's face with one of his hands while the other continued to apply pressure to the injured shoulder; he smeared some of the blood droplets that had sprayed up from Wilson's shoulder when the bullet slammed into his body.

Hearing another set of feet running into the room, House glanced briefly over his shoulder to see Levison, dressed nicely in a soft-blue dress and heels, come to kneel next to Wilson as well.

"Hold on, Dr. Wilson," she said softly to the oncologist and then looked at House. "The ambulance just arrived and the paramedics are on their way up."

Nodding in acknowledgement, House hoped she didn't launch into a bunch of questions about what had happened. She didn't. Instead the female detective stood up and grabbed a throw off of the bed and discreetly wrapped it around House's shoulders before moving over to view the body of the maniac who had caused all of this.

The older doctor sighed a little in relief when he heard the familiar clatter and roll of a stretcher as it entered the loft apartment and headed their way. He was surprised when he saw Chase accompanying the paramedics.

Levison turned and glared at the Australian. "I thought I told you to stay in the car until everything is all clear!"

Shrugging, he replied, "It looks all clear to me."

Sighing, Annie Levison said to a couple of cops just standing around, "Okay, whoever doesn't have to be in here right now clear out to give the paramedics room to move!" Obviously that included her, as she followed the others out of the bedroom.

Chase joined House at Wilson's side, automatically checking Wilson's pulse.

"What…are you doing here?" the diagnostician demanded.

"Pulse one-hundred," Chase said before answering his boss. "Annie and I were having dinner when she received a call from the station. I was driving her there when she told to divert here." he answered matter-of-factly. "I came up when I heard someone had been shot—thought they might need a doctor."

"And what…am I?"House groused, "Chopped liver?"

The Fellow ignored the comment, smiling weakly in encouragement to Wilson. "You look like hell," he said to him.

"I've…been shot," Wilson uttered, trying to smile but grimacing instead. "What's…your excuse?"

Chuckling at that, Chase backed away to give the paramedics access to the injured man. The Fellow touched House's arm in a silent encouragement to the older doctor to do the same. Grudging, House rose to his foot and cane, groaning slightly at the pain as he did.

"Greg," Wilson said with concern, "are you…alright?"

"Just my leg," the diagnostician told him, frowning. "Don't worry…focus on…you!"

House quickly pulled on some clothes as he watched impatiently as the paramedics tended to his best friend and then loaded and secured him to the stretcher, covering him with a blanket. He turned to Chase.

"Going to…ride along…in the ambulance," he told his employee quietly. "My leg is screaming…like a bitch. Shit! Would you..?."

"No problem," Chase said, "I'll help you get down there. While at the hospital we may be able to give you something a little stronger than ibuprofen for your leg."

The diagnostician merely offered his thanks as a curt nod; he felt incredibly frustrated at needing anyone else's help to get around because of his useless appendage, much less one of his minions'.

With Chase's help, House followed Wilson's stretcher out of the apartment as the police set about cordoning off the loft for the second time in a week.

"~*~"

Wilson had been right—the bullet had just missed his lung and had lodged itself near his shoulder blade. The surgery to remove the bullet and repair the damage done in its wake had been fairly straight forward although House still had stood vigil in the observation gallery above the operating theatre, watching the procedure from prep to finish and had been in Recovery when the oncologist awoke from the anesthetic.

Once Davinport's apartment had been searched, a bounty of evidence presented itself, along with his collection of diaries that he had kept since he was a child. The forensic psychiatrists, criminologists and profilers at the FBI would pour over them in an attempt to figure out the inner workings of the serial killer to discover that he had been molested by his pediatrician when he was seven years old and in the hospital with appendicitis. That added to the verbal and emotional abuse from his father as he developed (including his dad's disapproval of his choice to pursue artistic pursuits other than sports or business) and his own genetic predisposition had created the messed up sociopath that died in the loft apartment.

House wasn't one to be sympathetic to others, but even he felt pangs of empathy for the man he had killed to protect the man he loved. They were short-lived, however, when he looked at Wilson in his hospital bed, sleeping peacefully thanks to the morphine he had been given for the pain. Pangs of guilt bothered him then. If he'd only been able to get to the bedroom in time to prevent Wilson being shot. If only he'd gone home that night instead of going to The Spectra Lounge to get drunk, high and take a total stranger home for retaliatory sex. If only he'd taken the risk and told Wilson sooner just how much he loved and needed him, before Sam; 'If onlies' didn't change a damned thing however. They only fueled the fires of guilt and self-pity.

This relationship…this one he promised himself he wouldn't sabotage or run away from because he knew what that would mean for him, and it wasn't something he wanted to think about. It was different with Wilson, he knew. The oncologist and he had been through thick and thin, life and death, literally, and still they were here, together. Wilson could have just cheated on Sam with the diagnostician, like he had in his other relationships except for Amber, but he hadn't. He'd done the right thing, possibly because he knew that House was different from the rest. Not only were they in love, but they had been best of friends before they had fallen in love. They'd seen each other _before_ the rose-colored glasses of romance and sex had blinded them to each others' dark sides and yet they still had wanted to be together and accept each other. Perhaps that was the key—being best friends before lovers. Maybe that was the preventative cure to broken relationships and broken hearts. It would be an interesting social experiment that he may consider pursuing someday; for now he would focus his attention on the most important person in his life.

Wilson awoke, blinking his eyes sleepily. "Hey," he said quietly, smiling lovingly.

House was startled from his thoughts and returned the smile, leaning in to place a lingering kiss on the younger man's lips.

"How do you feel?" the diagnostician asked him.

"Okay," was the answer. "A little sore, a little nauseous."

"That's the…morphine," House reminded him. "It'll pass." He stared at Wilson for a long moment. "What…were you thinking? Jumping…him! He…had a…gun!"

"I thought you were dying," the oncologist said to him with puppy dog eyes. "I needed to save you, I couldn't think about anything else. You were faking?"

A smug smile was House's response.

"Son of a bitch," Wilson said affectionately. "Do that to me again and I'm going to put Exlax in your Hot Chocolate!"

The older man shrugged. "Fine…with me—you…do the laundry."

Wilson couldn't help but chuckle and then winced.

"You should…get full use of your…shoulder and arm back," House informed him, giving him the information the surgeon had passed on to him. "Lots of Physio ahead. Should be…released…two days. After…we're going…on…vacation. I say so."

Grinning Wilson nodded, "Sounds good to me! Where do you want to go?"

"Kentucky."

The oncologists eyebrows arched in surprise. "To visit your mother?"

"With Dad gone…why not?" the diagnostician replied taking both of Wilson's hands in his. "I…want to tell…her about us."

"Maybe we could stop to see _my_ parents along the way," Wilson told him. "My Dad will be happy if I'm happy but my Mom…may have a heart attack."

Unable to help himself, House grinned. "We're doctors. We'll…resuscitate."

He leaned in again and kissed the younger deeply, savoring his lips, his taste, the heat that radiated off of him. "You…know…how I feel about…you, don't you?" House whispered against Wilson's mouth.

"Yes," he replied, "but I like to hear it."

House sighed in mock frustration, rolling his eyes. "You're worse than…a chick!" he said and then sobered, staring into Wilson's eyes with soulful, honest blues. "You make me feel…happy, James. I love you."

"I love you, too, Greg," was the younger man's reply.

~fin~


End file.
